






Class_HZ3 

Rook Qrll^N \o 


CopiglitN?_6__ 

COEXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


PC) 








MONSIEUR LECOQ 




FF.OM THE FKENCH OF 

EMILE '^GABORIAU 


Translated by 3Irs. Laura B. Kendall. 


IN THREE VOLUMES— VOLUME 1 


OF 



New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 
1894 


V 


0 



■z- 



Well 


that ends weil; all who have Coughs, 
Colds and Throat Troubles are made 
well by 



SiOil 


/ of^God-iiver Oil, with hypophosphit^^^ 
? of lime and Soda. When lungs SiXft 
affected Scott’s Emulsion, if taken in 
time, prevents consumption. P/iy~ 
sicians^ the world over, endorse *t. 


The consumption germ t- 
grows when the hoc*' 
emaciated. The ge 
the body is stron^ 


Prepired by SCOTT &. BOWHE, N. i. Dreggists sell jl , 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


THE SEARCH. 


CHAPTER I. 


On the 20th of February, 18 — , a Sunday that 
' hanced to be Shrove Sunday, about eleven o’clock 
in ciie evening, a party of agents of the safety- 
ervice left the police station at the old Barriere 
Vltalie. 

y ""he mission of this party was to explore that 
'3 precinct which extends from the road to 
.tainebleau to the Seine, and from the outer 
po’devards to the fortifications. 

This quarter of the city had at that time any- 
hing but an enviable reputation. To venture 
4iere at night was considere so dangerous that 
ibldiers from the forts, who came to Paris with 
jermission to attend the theater, were ordered to 
yait at the barriere.^ and not to pass through 
he perilous locality except in parties of three 
‘ir four. 

I After midnight, these gloomy and. narrow 
streets became the haunt of flocks of homeless 
v^ag^iaonds. Escaped criminals and malefactors 
Bade this quarter their rendezvous. If the day 
lad L. :5en a lucky one they made merry over their 
poils. sleep overtook them they hid in 

■ ov imong the rubbish in deserted 

f ' ises. 

.‘llverv f been made to dislodge these . 



4 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


dangerous guests, but the most energetic meas- 
ures had failed of success. 

Watched, hunted, and in imminent danger of 
arrest though they were, they always returned 
with idiotic obstinacy, obeying, as one might 
suppose, some mysterious law of attraction. 

Hence, the police had there an immense trap, 
constantly baited, to which their game came of 
their own accord to be caught. 

The result of a tour of inspection was so cer- 
tain, that it was with an assured tone the officer 
in charge of the post called to the squad as they 
departed : 

“I will prepare lodgings for our guests. Good 
luck to jmu, and much pleasure!” \ 

Tl^is last wish was pure irony, for the weather 
was the most disagreeable that could be imagi- 
ined. 

A very heavy snow storm had prevailed foj' 
several days. It was nov/ beginning to thaw 
and on ail the frequented thoroughfares the slush 
was ankle-deep. It was still cold, however; 
damp chill filled the air, and penetrated to th( 
very marrow of one’s bones. Besides, there waJ 
a dense fog, so dense that one could not see one’j 
hands before one’s face. 

“What a beastly job!” growled one of the 
agents. 

• “Yes,” replied the inspector who commanded 
the squad; “ I think if you had an income of 
thirty thousand francs you would not be here.’^ 

The laugh that greeted this commonplace joke 
was not so much . flattery as homage to a recog- j 
nized and established superiority. C 

The inspector was, in fact, one of the most’ 
esteemed members of the force ; a man who had 
proved his worth. 

His powers of penetration were not, perhaps, 
very great; but he thoroughly understood his 
business, its resources, its labyrinths, and it^ 
artifices. Long practice had giyen him imper- 




MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


5 


turbable coolness, a great confidence in himself, 
and a sort of coarse diplomacy, that answered in 
place of shrewdness. 

To his failings and to his virtues he added in- 
contestable courage. 

He laid his hand upon the coliar of the most 
dangerous malefactor as tranquilly as a devotee 
dips his finger in a basin of ho]:v water. 

He was a man about forty-six years of age, 
stTuagly built, v/ith rugged features, a heavy 
mustache, and rather small, gray eyes, hidden 
by bushy eyebrows. 

His name was Gevrol, but he was universally 
known as “General.” 

This sobriquet was pleasing to his vanity, 
v/hich was not slight, as his subordinates well 
knew; and, doubtless, he felt that he ought to 
receive from them the consideration due a person 
of that exalted rank. 

“If you begin to complain already,” he added 
gruffiy, “ what will you do by aud by?” 

In fact it was too soon to complain. 

The little party were then passing up the Rue 
de Choisy. The people upon the sidewalks were 
orderly; and the lights of the wineshops illumi- 
nated the street. 

For all these places were open. There is no 
fog nor thaw that is potent enough to dismay 
lovers of pleasure. And a boisterous crowd of 
maskers filled each saloon and public ball-room. 

Through the open windows came, alternately, 
the sounds of loud voices and bursts of noisy 
music. Occasionally a drunken man staggered 
along the pavement, or a masked figure crept 
along in the shadow of the houses. 

Before certain establishments Gevrol com- 
manded a halt. He. gave a peculiar whistle 
and almost immediately a man came out. It 
was another member of the force. His report 
was listened to, and then the squad passed on. 

“To the left boys!” ordered Gevrol; ‘Sve will 


6 


MONSIEUK LECOQ. 


take the Rue d’lvry, aud then cut through the 
shortest way to the Rue de Chevaleret/’ 

From this point the expedition became reall}^ 
disagreeable. 

Their way led through an unfinished street 
that had not even been named, full of mud-pud- 
dles and deep holes and obstructed with all sorts 
of rubbish. 

There were no longer any lights or drinki;\e' 
saloons.; no footsteps, no voices; nothing but 
solitude,^ gloom and silence. 

One might have supposed one’s self a hundred 
leagues from Paris, had it not boon for the deep 
and continuous murmur that always arises from 
a large city, like the hollow roaring of a torrent 
in the depths of a cave. 

All the men had turned up their pantaloons, 
and were advancing slowly, picking their way 
as carefully as an Indian when he is stealing 
upon his prey. 

They had just passed the Rue du Chateau-des- 
Rentiers, when suddenly a wild shriek rent the 
air. 

At this place, and at this hour, this cry was so 
frightfully significant that all the men paused 
as by a common impulse. 

‘^‘Did you hear that. General? ” asked one of 
the police, in a Ionv voice. 

“Yes, there is murder going on not far from 
here — but where? Silence! let us listen.” 

They all stood motionless, with anxious ears, 
holding their breath, and soon a second cry, o.r 
rather a wild howl, resounded. 

“Ah!” exclaimed the captain of the guard, 
“ it is at the Poiv^riere.” * 

This peculiar appellation described exactly .uo 
place which it designated, and the guests tl>at 
were wont to frequent it. 

In figurative language that has its source in 


Pepper-box. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


7 


^ount Parna,ssus, they say that a man is “pep- 
)ei’ed” when he leaves his good sense in the bot- 
tom of his glass; hence the sobriquet of “stealers 
of pepper” given to the rascals whose specialty 
it to plunder inoffensive and helpless drunken 


ri. 

“What!” added Gevrol, “you do not know 
Mother Chupin’s drinking saloon there, on the 
right. Run!” 

And setting the example, he dashed off in the 
direction indicated. His men followed, and in 
less than a minute they reached a hovel, sinister 
uf aspect, and standing alone. 

It was indeed from this house that the cries 
had proceeded. They were i-epeated, and were 
immediately followed by two pistol shots. 

The house was hermetically closed, but through 
the* heart-shaped windows covered with shutters 
filtered a reddish light like that of a fire. 

^ , One of the policemen darted to one of these 
windows, and raising himself up by clinging to 
the shutters with his hands, he endeavored to 
peer through the cracks, and to see what was 
passing within. 

Gevrol himself ran to the door. “Open! ” he 
commanded, striking it heavily. 

No response. 

But they could hear plainly the sound of a 
terrible struggle — of fierce imprecations, hollow 
groans, and occasionally the sobs of a woman. 

“Horrible!” cried the policeman, who was 
peering through the shutters; “ it is horrible!” 

This exclamation decided Gevrol. 

“Open, in the name of the law! ” he cried, a 
third time. 

Jviid no person responding, with a blow of his 
shoulder that was as violent as a blow from a 
batte.- hig-ram, he dashed open the door. 

Then the horror-stricken accent of the man 
who had been peering through the shutter was 
explained. 


8 


monsieur lecoq. 


' The room presented such a spectacle that ? I 
the agents, and even Gevrol himself, remain tU 
for a moment rooted to their places, cold with 
unspeakable horror. 

Everything about the place denoted that it 
had been the scene of a terrible struggle, one of 
t;hose savage conflicts that too often stain the 
drinking saloons of the barriere with blood. 

The lights had been extinguished at the begin- 
ning of the strife, but a huge fire of pine logs 
illuminated the remotest corners of the room. 

Tables, glasses, decanters, household utensils, 
and stools had been overturned, thrown in every 
direction, trodden upon, and shivered into frag- 
ments. 

Near the fireplace two men were stretched upon 
the floor. They were lying motionless upon t^ir 
backs, their arms crossed. A third was lying 
in the middle of the room. 

A woman crouched upon the lower steps of a 
staircase leading up to the floor above. She h^d 
thrown her apron over her head, and was utter- 
ing inarticulate moans. 

Opposite them, on the threshold of a wide open 
door leading into an adjoining room, stood a 
young man, a heavy oaken table forming a ram- 
part before him. 

He was of medium stature, and wore a full 
beard. 

His clothing, which was like that worn by 
porters about the wharves and railway stations, 
was torn to fragments, and soiled with dust and 
wine and blood. 

This certainly was the murderer. The expres- 
sion of his face was terrible. A mad fury blazed 
in his eyes, and a convulsive sneer distorted his 
features. In his neck and on his cheek were two 
wounds that were bleeding profusely. 

In his right hand, covered with a handker- 
chief, he held a pistol which he aimed at the in- 
truders. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


9 


“Surrender! ” cried Gevrol. 

The man’s lips moved, but in spite of a visible 
effort he could not articulate a syllable. 

“Don’t do any mischief,” continued the in- 
spector, “we are in force, you cannot escape; so 
lay down your arms.” 

I “I am innocent,” exclaimed the man, in a 
[hoarse, strained voice. 

L “Naturally, but we do not see it.” 

“I have been attacked; ask that old woman. 
I defended myself; I have killed — I had a righi 
to do so; it was in self-defense!” 

The gesture with which he enforced these 
words was so menacing that one of the police- 
men drew Gevrol violently to one side, saying 
as he did so: 

“Take care. General, take care! The revolvei 
has fiv^e barrels, and we have heard but tw( 
\shots.” 

But the inspector was inaccessible to fear; Iil 
freed himself from the grasp of his subordinate 
and again stepped forward, speaking in a still 
calmer tone: 

“No foolishness, my boy; if your case is a 
good one, which is possible after all, do not spoil 
it.” 

A frightful indecision betrayed itself on the 
young man’s features.- He held Gevrol’s life at 
the end of his finger; was he about to press the 
trigger? 

No, he suddenl.y threw his weapon to the 
floor, saying: 

“Come and take me! ” 

And turning, he darted into the adjoining 
room, hoping doubtless to escape by some place 
of egress known to himself. 

Gevrol had expected this movement. He 
sprang after him with outstretched arms, but 
the table retarded him. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the wretch escapes 
us!” 


10 


MONSIEUE LECOQ. 


But the fate of the fugitive was already de- 
cided. 

While Gevrol was parleying, one of the police- 
men — the one who had peered through the win- 
dow — had made a circuit of the house and hr ^ 
effected an entrance through the back door. 



As the murderer was darting out, this man j 
sprang upon him, seized him, and with surprisg 
ing strength and agility dragged him back. 

The murderer tried to resist; in vain. He 
had lost his strength; he tattered and fell upon 
the table that had protected him, murmuring 
loud enough for every one to hear: 

“Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!” 

This simple and decisive maneuver on the part 
of the subordinate had won the victory, and must 
Oave delighted the inspector. 

“Good, my boy,” said he, “very good! Ah! 
you have a talent for your business, and you 
will do well if ever an opportunity — ” 

He checked himself; all his followers so evi- 
dently shared his enthusiasm that a feeling of 
jealousy overtook him. He felt his prestige di- 
mihiching, and hastened to add : 

“The idea had occurred to me; but I could 
not give the order without warning the scoun- 
drel himself.” 

This remark was superfluous. All the men 
had gathered around the murderer. They sur- 
rounded him, and, after binding' his feet and 
hands, they fastened him securely to a chair. 

He offered no resistance. His wild excitement 
had given place to that gloomy prostration that 
follows all unnatural efforts, either of mind or 
of body. Evidently he had abandoned himself 
to his fate. 

When Gevrol saw that the men had finished 
this task : 

“Now,” he commanded, “let us attend to 
the others ; and light the lamps, for the fire is 
going out.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


11 


It was with the two men stretched out before 
the hearth that the inspector began his exami- 
nation. 

He questioned the beating of their hearts: 
their hearts no longer beat. He held the crystal 
of his watch close to their lips : the glass re- 
mained shining and clear. 

“Useless,” he murmured, after several trials, 
“useless; they are dead! They will never see 
morning again. Leave them in the same posi- 
tion until the arrival of the coroner, and let us 
look at the third.” 

The third man still breathed. He was a young 
man, wearing the uniform of a common soldier. 
He was unarmed, and his large gray cloak was 
partly open, revealing his bare chest. 

They lifted him very carefully, for he 
groaned piteously at the slightest movement, 
and they placed him in an upright position, with 
his back supported against the wall. 

Soon he opened his eyes, and in a faint voice 
asked for something to drink. 

They brought him a glass of water; he drank 
it with evident satisfaction; then he drew a 
long breath, and seemed to be regaining some 
of his strength. 

“Where are you wounded?” demanded Gevrol. 

“In the head, there,” he responded, trying to 
raise one of his arms. “Oh! how I suffer.” 

The police agent, who had cut off the retreat 
of the murderer, approached, and with a dexter- 
ity that an old surgeon might have envied made 
an examination of the gaping wound that the 
young man had received in the back of his neck. 

“It is nothing,” the policeman declared. 

But there was no mistaking the movement of 
his lower lip. It is evident that he considered 
the wound very dangerous, probably mortal. 

“It will be nothing,” affirmed Gevrol; 
“wounds in the head, when they do not kill at 
once, are cured in a month.” 


12 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The wounded man smiled sadly. 

“I have received my death-blow/’ he mur-j 
mured. I 

“Nonsense!” \ 

“Oh! it is useless to say anything; I feel it,/ 
but I do not complain. I have received only myi, 
just deserts.” 

All the agents of police turned toward tha 
murderer on hearing these words. They sup^ 
posed that he would take advantage of this oppor- 
tunity to repeat his protestations of i' ^ ' ^e. 

Their expectations were disappoir ^ ! did 
not speak, although he must cerictinly have 
heard the words. 

“It was that brigand, Lacheneur, w^ enticed 
me here,” continued the wounded nrhh, in a 
voice that was growing fainter. 

“Lacheneur? ” 

“Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who 
had known me when I was rich — for I have had 
a fortune, but I have spent it all; I wished to 
amuse myselt. He, knowing F was without a 
sou, came to me and promised me money enough 
to begin life over again. And because I be- 
lieved him I came to die like a dog in this hole! 
Oh! I will have my revenge on him!” 

At the thought he clinched his hands threaten- 
ingly. 

“I will have my revenge,” he resumed. “I 
know much more 'than he believes. I will tell 
all.” 

He had presumed too much upon his strength. 

Anger had given him a moment’s energy, but 
it was at the cost of the life that was ebbing 
away. 

When he again tried to speak, he could not. 
Twice he opened his lips, but there issued from 
them only a choking cry of impotent rage. 

It was the last manifestation of intelligence. 
A bloody foam gathered upon his lips, his eyes 
rolled back in their sockets, his body stiffened. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


13 


and he fell face downward in a terrible con- 
vulsion. 

“It is over,” murmured Gevrol. 

“Not yet,” replied the young policeman, who 
-iiad shown himself so efficient; “but he cannot 
live more than two minutes. Poor devil! he 
will say nothing.” 

The inspector of police had risen from the 
door as calmly as if he had just witnessed the 
commonest incident in the world, and was care- 
fully d‘'*%ing the knees of his pantaloons. 

“Oh^ %11/' he responded, “we shall know all 
we neeaw^ know. This fellow is a soldier, and 
the nun>ber of his regiment will be given on the 
buttorWof his cloak.” 

A sl^ht smile curled the lips of his subordi- 
nate. 

“I think you are mistaken. General,” said he. 

“How — ” 

“ Yes, I understand. Seeing him attired in a 
military coat, you have supposed — But no; 
this poor wretch was no soldier. Do you wish 
an immediate proof of this? Ts his hair the 
regulation cut? Where have you seen soldiers 
with their hair falling upon their shoulders?” ' 

This objection silenced the General for a mo- 
ment; but he replied bruskly : 

“Do you think that I keep my eyes in my 
pocket? What you have remarked did not es- 
cape my notice; only I said to myself, here is a 
young man who has profited by leave of absence 
to visit the wig-maker.” 

“At least — ” 

But Gevrol would permit no more interrup- 
tions. 

“Enough talk,” he declared. “We will now 
hear what has passed. Mother Chupin, the old 
hussy, is not dead!” 

As he spoke, he advanced toward the old wo- 
man, who was still crouching upon the stairs. 
She had not spoken, nor moved, nor ventured 


14 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


SO much as a look, since the entrance of the po- 
lice, but her moans had not been discontioued. 

With a sudden movement Gevrol tore off the 
apron which she had thrown over her head, and 
there she stood, such as 3^ears, vice, povertj^, 
and torrents of brandy and rataf ea had made 
her; wrinkled, shriveled, toothless c Vid aaggard, 
her skin, yellow and dry as parchment, drawn 
tightly over her bones. • . 

“Come, stand up!’^ ordered the inspector. 
“Your lamentations do not trouble me much. 
You ought to be sent to prison for putting such 
vile drugs into your liquors, to breed madness in 
the brains of your visitors.” 

The old woman’s little red eyes traveled slowly 
around the room, and in tearful tones she ex- 
claimed : 

“What a misfortune! what will become of 
me? Everything is broken — I am ruined!” 

She seemed to be impressed only by the loss of 
her table utensils. 

“Now tell us how this trouble began,” said 
Gevrol. 

“Alas! I know nothing about it. I was up- 
^t^irs mending my son’s clothes when I heard a 
dispute. ’ ’ 

“And after that?” 

“Of course I came down, and I saw those three 
men that are lying there picking a quarrel with 
that young man whom you have arrested; the 
poor innocent! For he is innocent, as truly as I 
am an honest woman. If my son Pol,yte had 
been here he would have parted them; but I, a 
poor widow, what could I do? I cried ‘Police!’ 
with all my might.” 

After giving this testimony she resumed her 
seat, thinking she had said enough. But Gevrol 
rudely ordered her to stand up again. 

“Oh! we have not done,” said he. “I wish 
other particulars.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


15 


rWhat particulars, dear Mousieur Gevrol, 
since I saw nothing?” 

Anger crimsoned the large ears of the inspec- 
tor. 

‘‘What would you say, old woman, if I ar- 
rested you?” 

“It would be a great injustice.” 

“It is what will happen if you persist in re- 
maining silent. I have an idea that a fortnight 
in Saint-Lazare would untie your tongue.” 

This nam^ produced the effect of an electric 
shoi k on the Widow Chupin. She suddenly 
ceased her hypocritical lamentations, rose, placed 
her hands defiantly upon her hips, and poured 
forth a torrent of invective upon Gevrol and his 
agents, accusing them of persecuting her family 
since they had previously arrested her son, a 
mauvais sujet, and swearing that she was not 
afraid of prison, and would be only too glad to 
end her days there beyond the reach of want. 

At first the General tried to impose silence 
upon the terrible termagant; but he soon discov- 
ered that he was powerless; besides ail his sub- 
ordinates were laughing. He turned his back 
upon her, and advancing toward the murderer, 
he said : 

“You, at least, will not refuse an explanation.” 

The man hesitated for a moment. 

“I have already said all that I have to say,” 
he replied, at last. “I have told you that I am 
innocent; and a man on the point of death who 
was struck down by my hand, and this old wo- 
man, have both confirmed my declaration. What 
more do you desire? When the judge questions 
me, I will, perhaps, reply; until then do not ex- 
pect another word from me.” 

It was easy to see that this man’s resolution 
was irrevocable; and that he was not to be 
daunted by any sergeant of police. 

. Very often criminals, from the moment of 
their capture, preserve an absolute silence. These 


16 


iVlOiNSIEUK j^ECOQ. 


mea ai*fe experienced and sbrewcl; these are the 
men who cause lawyers and judges many sleep- 
less nights. 

They have learned that a system of defense 
cannot be improvised at once; that it is, on the 
contrary, a work of patience and of meditation; 
and knowing what a terrible effect an apparently 
insignificant response drawn from them at the 
moment of detection may produce on a court of 
justice, they are silent. 

Gevrol was about to insist, when some one 
announced that the soldier had just breathed his 
last. 

“As that is so, my boys,” he remarked, “ two 
of you will remain here, and I will leave with 
the others. I shall go and arouse the commis- 
sioner of police, and inform him of the affair; 
he will take the matter in hand; and we will do 
whatever he commands. My responsibility will 
be over, in any case. • So untie the legs of our 
prisoner, and bind Mother Chupin’s hands, and 
we will drop them both at the station-house as 
we pass.” 

The men hastened to obey, with the exception 
of the youngest among them, the same who liad 
won the eulogiums of the General. 

He approached his chief, and motioning that 
he desired to speak with him, drew him outside 
the door. 

When they were a few steps from the house: 

“Yi^hat do you wish?” inquired Gevrol. 

“I want to know. General, what you think 
of this affair.” 

“I think, my boy, that four scoundrels encoun- 
tered each other in this vile den. They began 
to quarrel; and from words they came to blows. 
One of them had a revolver, and he killed the 
others. It is as clear as daylight. According 
to his antecedents, and according to the antece- 
dents of the victims, the assassin will be judged. 
Perhaps society owes him some thanks.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


17 


“And you think that any investigation — anjr.: , 
further search is unnecessary?” ' 

“Entirely unnecessary.” 

The younger man appeared to deliberate for a 
moment. « 

“It seems to me, General,” he replied at length, 
“that this affair is not perfectly clear. Have 
you noticed the murderer, remarked his demean- 
or, and observed his look ? Have you been sur- 
prised as I have been — ” 

“By what?” 

“Ah, well! it seems to me — I may, of course, 
be mistaken — but I fancy that appearances are 
deceitful, and — Yes, I suspect something.” 

“Bah! — explain why you should, if you 
please. ’ ’ 

“How can you explain the power of scenting 
his prey possessed by a hunting dog?” 

Gevrol shrugged his shoulders. 

“In short,” he replied, “you scent a melo- 
drama here — a rendezvous of great gentlemen in 
disguise, here at the Poivriere — at the house of 
Mother Chupin! Well, hunt the mystery, my 
boy ; search all you like, you have my permis- 
sion.” 

“What! you will allow me?” 

“I not only allow you, I order you to do it. 
You are going to remain here with such an one 
of your comrades as you may select. And if 
you find anything that I have not seen, I will 
allow you to buy me a pair of spectacles.” 


CHAPTER II. 


The young man to whom Gevrol abandoned 
what he thought an unnecessary investigation 
was a debutant in his profession, 
name was Lecoq. 

) was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six 


18 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


years of age, almost beaidless, very pale, witb 
red lips, and. an abundance of wavy black hair 
He was rather small, but well pioportioned ; am 
his every movement betrayed unusual energy. 

There was nothing remarkable about his ap 
pearance, if we except his eyes, which sparkle 
brilliantly or grew dull, according to his mood ! 
and. his nose, whose large and. rather full nostril j 
had a surprising mobility. . 

The son of a rich and respectable family in 
Normandy, Lecoq had received a good and solid 
education. " V 

He had begun his law studies in Paris, when 
in the same week, blow following blow, he 
learned that his father had died, financially 
ruined, and that his mother had survived him 
only a few hours. 

He was now alone in the world, destitute of 
resources — and he was obliged to live. He had 
an opportunity of learning his true value; it was 
nothing. 

The university, on bestowing the diploma of 
bachelor, does not give an annuity with it. And 
of what use is a college education to a poor or- 
phan boy? 

He en vied the lot of those who, with a trade 
at the ends of their fingers, could boldly enter 
the office of any manufacturer, and say: ‘‘I 
would like work.” 

Such nien were working and eating. 

He sought bread by all the methods employed 
by people who are in reduced circumstances. 
Fruitless labor! There are one hundred thou- 
sand people in Paris who have seen better days. 

No matter! He gave proofs of undaunted ener- 
gy. He gave lessons, and he copied documents 
for a lawyer. He made his dehut in a new role 
almost every day, and left no means untried to 
earn an honest livelihood. 

At last he obtained employment from a^ ■‘^1- 
known astronomer, the Baron Moser, and^'A 


MONSIEUR LEGOQ. 


19 


his days in solving bewildering and intricate 
problems at the rate of one hundred francs a 
month. 

But a season of discouragement came. After 
five years of constant toil, he found himself at 
the same point from which he had started. He 
was nearly crazed with rage and disappointment 
when he recapitulated his blighted hopes, his 
fruitless efforts, and the insults he had endured. 

The past had been sad, the present was intol- 
erable, the future threatened to be terrible. 

Condemned to constant privations, he tried to 
escape from the horrors of his real life by taking 
refuge in dreams. 

Alone in his garret, after a da}?” of unremitting 
toil, assailed by the thousand longings of youth, 
he endeavored to devise some means of suddenly 
making himself rich. 

All reasonable methods being beyond his reach, 
it was not long before he was engaged in devis- 
ing the worst expedients. 

In short, this moral and honest young man 
spent much of his time in perpetrating — in fancy 
— the most abominable crimes. Sometimes he 
himself was frightened by the work of his im- 
agination. An hour of recklessness was all that 
was necessary to make him pass from the idea 
to the fact, from theory to practice. 

This is the case with all monomaniacs; an 
hour comes in which the strange conceptions 
that have filled their brains can be no longer 
held in check. 

One day he could not help exposing to his pa- 
tron a little plan which he had conceived, which 
would enable him to obtain five or six hundred 
francs from London. Two letters and a telegram 
were all that was necessary, and the game was 
won. It was impossible to fail, and there was 
no danger of arousing suspicion. 

The astronomer, amazed at the simplicity of 
the plan, could but admire it. On reflection, 


20 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


however, he concluded that it would not be ]'i •- 
dent for him to retain so ingenious a secret' 
in his service. 

This was why, on the following daj^ he gave 
him a month's pay in advance, and. dismissed 
him, saying: 

“When one has your disposition, and is poor, 
one will either become a famous thief or a great 
detective. Choose.” 

Leecq retired in confusion; but the astrouc- 
mer’s words bore fruit in his mind. 

“Why should I not follow good advice?” he 
asked himself. 

Police service did not inspire him with repug- 
nance — far from it. * He had often admired that 
mysterious power whose hand was everywhere, 
which one could not see nor hear, but which 
heard and saw everything. 

He was delighted with the prospect of being 
the instrument of this povver. He considered 
such a profession as a useful and honorable em- 
ployment of the special talent with which he had 
been endowed, and which promised a life of ex- 
citement, of thrilling adventures, and fame at 
last. 

In short, this profession held a wonderful 
charm for him. 

So much so that on the following week, thanks 
to a letter from Baron Moser, he was admitted 
into the service. 

A cruel disenchantment awaited him. He 
had seen the results, but not the means. His 
surprise was like that of a simple-minded fre- 
quenter of the theater, when he is admitted for 
the first time behind the scenes, and sees the 
decorations and tinsel that are so dazzling at a 
distance. 

Ah, well! — the opportunity for which he had 
so a-rdentiy longed, for which he had been wait- 
ing for months, had come at last, he thought, ou 
entering the Poivriere. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


21 


While he was clinging to the window he saw 
hy the light of his ambition the pathway to 
success. 

It was at first only a presentiment. It soon 
became a supposition, then a conviction based 
upon actual facts, which had escaped the notice 
^f his companions, but which he had observed 
and carefully noted. 

Fortune had, at last, turned in his favor; he 
recognized this fact when he saw Gevrol neglect 
aJl but the merest formalities of examination, 
when he heard him declare peremptorily that 
this triple murder was merely the result of one 
of those ferocious quarrels so frequent among 
vagrants on the outskirts of the city. 

“Ah, well!” he thought; “ have it your own 
way — trust in appearances, since you will see 
nothing beneath them! I will prove to you that 
my youthful theory is better than all your expe- 
rience.” 

The carelessness of the inspector gave Lecoq 
a right to . secretly seek information on his own 
account; but by warning his superior officer be- 
fore attempting anything on his own responsi- 
bility, he protected himself against any accusa- 
tion of ambition or of unduly taking advantage 
of his comrade. These would be grave accusa- 
tions against him in a profession where compe- 
tition and rivalry are most potent; and where 
wounded vanity has so many opportunities to 
avenge itself by all sorts of petty treason. 

He spoke, then, to his superior officer — said 
just enough to be able to say, in case of success; 
“Ah! I warned you!” — just enough not to dis- 
pel the doubt in Gevrol’ s mind. 

The permission that he obtained was his first 
triumph, and the best possible augury; but he 
knew how to dissimulate, and it was in a tone 
of the utmost indifference that he requested one 
of his comrades to remain with him. 

Then, while the others v/ere making ready to 


22 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


depart, he seated himself upon a corner of the 
table, apparently oblivious of all that was pass- 
ing. He did not dare to lift his head, for fear 
of betraying his joy, so much did he fear thau 
his companions would read his hopes and his 
plans in his face. 

Inwardly he was wild with impatience. 
Though the murderer submitted with good 
grace to the precautions that were taken to pre- 
vent his escape, it required some time to bind 
the hands of the Widow Chupin, who fought 
and howled as if they were burning her alive. 

“They will never go!” Lecoq said to himself. 

They did so at last, however. Gevrol gave the 
order to depart, and left the hoqse, after address- 
ing a laughing good-by to his subordinate. 

The latter made no reply. He followed them 
to the threshold of the door, as if to assure him- 
self that the squad had really gone. 

He trembled at the thought that Gevrol might 
reflect, change his mind, and return to solve the 
mystery, as was his right. 

His anxiety was heedless. The forms of the 
men faded in the distance, the cries of Widow 
Chupin died away in the stillness of the night. 
They had all disappeared. 

Not until then did Lecoq re-enter the room. 
He could no longer conceal his delight; his eyes 
sparkled like a conqueror taking possession of an 
empire; he stamped his foot upon the floor and 
exclaimed : 

“Now it belongs to us two!” 


CHAPTER III. 

Authorized by Gevrol to choose one of his 
comrades to remain with him in the Poivriere, 
Lecoq had requested the one who was considered 
the least intelligent of the party to keep him 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


23 


ompany. He was not influenced by a fear of 
»eing obliged to share the fruits of his success 
vith his companion, but by the necessity of 
laving an assistant of whom he could, in case 
»f need, exact obedience. The comrade Lecoq 
selected was a man of about fifty, who, after 
i term in the cavalry service, had entered the 
mfecture. 

In the humble office that ho occupied ho had 
seen prefet succeed prefet, and had probably 
filled a prison with culprits whom he had ar- 
rested with his own hands. 

He was no more shrewd and no more zealous 
now than he had always been. When he received' 
an order he executed it with military exactitude, 
so far as he understood it. 

If he had failed to understand it, so much the 
worse. 

He discharged his duties like a blind man, like 
an old horse trained for a riding school. 

When he had a moment’s leisure, and any 
money, he got drunk. 

He spent his life between two fits of intoxica- 
tion, without ever rising above a condition of 
demi- lucidity. 

His comrades had known, but had forgotten 
his name. Every one now called him Father 
Absinthe. 

Naturally he did not observe the enthusiasm 
nor the tone of triumph in his young companion’s 
voice. 

“Upon my word,” he remarked, when they 
w^ere alone, “ your idea of keeping me here was 
a good one, and I thank you for it. While the 
others will spend the night paddling about in 
the slush, I shall get a good sleep.” 

Here he stood, in a room that was splashed 
with blood, that was shuddering with crime, 
and face to face with the still warm bodies of 
the murdered men he could talk of sleep! 

But what did all this matter to him? He had 


24 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


seen so many similar scenes in his life. And 
does not habit infallibly lead to professional in- 
difference — that strange phenomenon that makes 
the soldier cool and composed in the midst of 
conflict, that gives the surgeon impassibility 
when the patient shrieks and writhes beneath his 
operating knife. 

“I have been upstairs, looking about,” pur- 
sued Father Absinthe; “ I saw a bed up there, j 
and we can mount guard here, by turns.” 

With an imperious gesture, Lecoq interrupted 
him. 

“You must give up that idea. Father Ab- 
sinthe; we are not here to sleep, but to collect 
information — to make the most careful re- 
searches, to note all the probabilities. In a few 
hours the commissioner of police, the physician, 
and the coroner will be here. I wish to have a 
report ready for them.” 

This proposition seemed anything but pleasing 
to the old policeman. 

“Eh! what is the use of that?” he exclaimed. 
“I know the General. When he goes in search 
of the commissioner, as he has this evening, 
there is nothing more to be done. Do you think 
that you see anything that he did not see?” 

“I think that Gevrol, like ev^ery one else, is 
liable t.o be mistaken. I think that he believes 
too implicitly in what seems to him evidence. I 
could swear that this affair is not what it seems 
to be; and I am sure that we can, if we will, dis- 
cover the mystery which is concealed, by appear- 
ances.” 

Though the vehemence of the young officer 
was intense, he did not succeed in making any 
impression upon his companion, who, with a 
yawn that threatened to dislocate his jaws, re- 
plied : 

“Perhaps you are right; but I am going to 
bed. This need not prevent you from search- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


25 


around, however, and if you find anything 
you can wake me.” 

Lecoq made no sign of impatience; nor in 
reality was he impatient. It afforded him the 
opportunity for which he was longing. 

“You will give me a moment first,” he re- 
marked. “In five minutes, by your watch, I 
will promise to let you put your fitoger on the 
mystery that I suspect here. ’ ’ 

“Well, go on for five minutes.” 

“xlfter that you shall be free, Father Absinthe. 
Only it is clear that if I work it out alone, I 
shall pocket the reward that a solution of the 
mystery will certainly bring.” 

At the word “reward,” the old policeman 
pricked up his ears. Ho was dazzled by the 
vision of an infinite number of bottles of the 
greenish liquor whose name he bore. 

“Convince me then,” said he, taking a seat 
upon a stool, which he had lifted from the floor. 

Lecoq remained standing in front of him. 

“To begin with,” he remarked, “whom do 
you suppose the person we have just arrested 
to be?” 

“A porter, probably, or a vagabond.” 

“That is to say, a man belonging to the lowest 
order of society; consequently, a man without 
education.” 

“Certainly.” 

Lecoq spoke with his eyes fixed upon the eyes 
of his companion. He distrusted his own 
powers, as is usual with persons of real merit, 
and he felt that if he could succeed in making 
his convictions penetrate . the obtuse mind of 
his companion^ it would prove the justice of 
these convictions. 

“And now,” he continued, “what would you 
say if I should prove to you that this young man 
had received an excellent, even refined edu- 
cation?” 

“I should reply that it was very extraordi- 


26 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


nary. I should reply that— but what a fool I 
am! You have not proved it to me yefc.” 

“But I can do so very easily. Do you remem- 
ber the words that he uttered as he fell?” 

“Yes, I remember them perfectly. He said: 
‘It is the Prussians who are coming.’ ” 

“What do you suppose he meant by that?” 

“What a question! I should suppose that he ^ 
did not like Prussians, and that he supposed he 
was offering us a terrible insult.” 

Lecoq was waiting anxiously for this re- 
sponse. 

“Ah, well! JFather Absinthe,” he said, 
gravely, “you are wrong, quite wrong. And 
that this man has an education superior to his 
apparent position is proved by the fact that you 
did not understand his meaning, nor his inten- 
tion. It was this single phrase that made the 
case clear to me. ” 

The physiognomy of Father Absinthe ex- 
pressed the strange and comical perplexity of a 
man who is so thoroughly mystified that he 
knows not whether to laugh or to be angry. 

After reflecting a little, he decided to be angry. 

“You are rather too young to impose upon an 
old man like me,” he remarked. “I do not like 
boasters — ” 

“One moment!” interrupted Lecoq; “allow 
me to explain. You have certainly heard of a 
terrible battle which resulted in one of the great- 
est defeats that ever happened to France — the 
battle of Waterloo?” 

“I do not see the connection — ” 

“Answer, if you please.” • 

“Yes— then!” 

“Very well; you must know then, papa, that 
for some time victory perched upon the banners 
of France. The English began to fall back, and 
already the emperor exclaimed : ‘"We liave them !’ 
when suddenly on the right, a little in the rear, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


27 


troops were seen advancing. It was the Prus- 
sian army. The battle of Waterloo was lost.” 

In all his life, worthy Father Absinthe had 
never made such strenuous efforts to understand 
anything. In this case they were not wholly 
useless; for he half rose in his chair, and with 
the tone in which Archimedes cried: “I have 
found it!” he exclaimed: 

“I understand. The man’s v/ords were an 
allusion.” 

“It is as you have said,” remarked Lecoq 
approvingly. “But I had not finished. If the 
emperor was thrown into consternation by the 
appearance of the Prussians, it was because he 
was momentarily expecting the arrival of one 
of his own generals from the same direction — 
Grouchy — with thirty-five thousand men. So if 
this man’s allusion was exact and complete, he 
was not expecting an enemy, but a friend. Now 
draw your own conclusions.” 

Amazed, but convinced, his companion opened 
to their widest extent the eyes that had been 
heavy with sleep a few moments before. 

“ATori Dieur^ he murmured, “if you put it in 
that way! But I forget; you must have seen 
something as you were looking through the cracks 
in the shutter.” 

The young man shook his head. 

“Upon my honor,” he declared, “I saw noth- 
ing save the struggle between the murderer and 
the poor devil in the garb of a soldier. It was 
that sentence alone that aroused rny attention.” 

“Wonderful! prodigious!” exclaimed the as- 
tonished old man. 

“I will add, that reflection has confirmed my 
suspicions. I asked myself why this man, in- 
stead of fleeing, should have waited and re- 
mained there, at that door, to parley with us.” 

With a bound. Father Absinthe was upon his 
feet. 

“Why?” he interrupted; “because he had ac- 


28 


MO^rSIEUR LECOQ. 


complices, and he wished to give them time to 
escape. Ah! I understand it all now.” 

A triumphant smile parted Lecoq’s lips. 

“That is what I said to myself,” he replied, 
“and now it is easy to verify m}^ suspicions. 
There is snow outside, is there not?” 

It was not necessary to say any mu The 
older ofiScer seized the light, and, followeu'hv 
his companion, he hastened U) the back door 
the house, which opened into a small garden. 

In this sheltered . inclosure the snow had not 
melted; and upon its white surface numerous 
foot-prints lay, like dark stains. 

Without hesitation, Lecgq threw himself upon 
his knees in the snow, in order to examine them; 
he rose again almost immediately. 

“These indentations were not made by the feet 
of men,” said he. “There have been women 
here.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Obstinate men of Father Absinthe’s stamp, 
who are always inclined /to differ with the opin- 
ions of others, are the very people who end in 
madly adopting them. 

When an idea has at last penetrated their 
empty brains, they instal it there magisterially, 
and dwell upon i^, and develop it until it exceeds 
the bounds of reason. 

Hence the veteran of the service was now much 
more strongly convinced than his companion, 
that the usually clever Gevrol was mistaken, 
and he laughed him to scorn. 

On hearing Lecoq affirm that women had 
taken part in the horrible scene at the Poi- 
vriere, his joy was extreme. 

“A fine affair!” he exclaimed; “an excellent 
case!” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


29 


And suddenly recollecting a maxim that has 
been handed down from the time of Cicero, he 
added in sententious tones: 

“Who holds the woman, holds the cause!” 

Lecoq did not deign to reply. He was stand- 
ing upon the threshold, leaning against the cas- 
ing of the door, his hand pressed to his forehead, 
v^vionless as a statue. 

The discovery which he had just made, and 
which so delighted Father Absinthe, filled him 
with consternation. It was the death of his 
hopes, the annihilation of the ingenious struct- 
ure which his imagination had built upon the 
foundation of a single sentence. There was no 
longer any mystery. Ho celebrity to be gained 
by a brilliant stroke ! 

For the presence of two women in this vile den 
explained everything in the most natural and 
commonplace fashion. 

Their presence explained the quarrel, the testi- 
mony of AVidow Chupin, the dying declaration 
of the pretended soldier. 

The behavior of the murderer was also ex- 
plained. He had remained to cover the retreat 
of the two women; he had sacrificed himself in 
order to save tliem, an act of that chivalrous gal- 
lantry so common in the French character, that 
even the scoundrels of the harrih^es were not 
entirely destitute of it. 

But the strange allusion to the battle of Water- 
loo remained unexplained. But what did that 
prove now? Hothing, simply nothing. And 
who could say how low an unworthy passion 
might cause a man even of birth and breeding 
to descend? And the carnival afforded an op- 
portunity for the parties to disguise themselves. 

But while Lecoq was turning and twisting all 
these probabilities in his mind. Father Absinthe 
became impatient. 

“Are we going to remain here until dooms- 
day?” he asked. “Are we to pause just at the 


30 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


momeat when our search has been product! vre 
such brilliant results?” 

“Brilliant results!” These words stung tl 
young man’s soul as deeplj^ as the keenest iron 
could have done. 

“Leave me alone,” he replied, gruffly; “am 
above all, do not walk about the garden. Yor- 
will spoil the foot-prints.” 

His companion swore a little; then he, to< 
became silent. He submitted to the irresistibh 
asci ndency of a superior will and intelligence 

Lecoq was engaged in following out his course 
of reasoning. 

“These are probably the events as they oc- 
curred,” he thought. 

“The murderer, leaving th§ ball at the Rain- 
bow; a public house not far from here, near the 
f(>rtilfications, came to this saloon, accompanied 
by two women. He found three men drinking 
here, who either began teasing him, or who dis- 
played too much gallantry to bivS companions. 
He became angry. The others threatened him; 
he was one against three; he was armed; he be- 
came wild with rage and fired — ” 

He checked himself, and in an instant after he 
added, aloud: 

“But was it the murderer who brought these 
women here? If he is tried, this will be the 
important point. It is necessary to obtain im- 
formation on the subject.” 

He immediately went back into the house,, 
closely followed by his colleague, and began an 
examination of the foot- prints about the door 
that Gevrol had forced open. 

Labor lost. There was but little snow on the 
ground about the entrance of the hovel, and so 
many persons had passed in and out that Lecoq 
could discover nothing. 

What a disappointment after his patient 
hopes ! 

Lecoq could have cried with rage. He saw 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


31 


the opportunity for which he had sighed so long 
indefinitely postponed. He fancied he could 
hear Gevrol’s coarse sarcasms. 

“Enough of this,” he murmured, under his 
breath. “The General was right, and I am a 
fool!” 

He was so positively convinced that one could 
do no more than discover the circumstances of 
some commonplace, vulgar broil, that he began 
to wonder if it would not be wise to renounce 
his search and take a nap, while awaiting the 
coming of the commissioner of police. 

But Father Absinthe was no longer of this 
opinion. 

This worthy man, who was far from suspect- 
ing the reflections in which his companion was 
indulging, could not explain his 'inaction. 

“Ah, well! my boy,” said he, “have you lost 
your wits? This is losing time, it seems to me. 
The justice will arrive in a few hours, and what 
report shall we present? As for me, if you de- 
sire to go to sleep, I shall pursue my investiga- 
tions alone.” 

Disappointed as he was, the young police offi- 
cer could not repress a smile. He recognized 
his own exhortations of a few moments before. 
It was the old man who had suddenly become 
intrepid. 

“To work, then,” he sighed, like a man who, 
while foreseeing defeat, wishes, at least, to have 
no cause to reproach himself. 

He found it, however, extremely difficult to 
follow the foot-prints in the open air by the un- 
certain light of a candle, which was extingaiished 
by the least breath of wind. 

“It is impossible,” said Lecoq. “I wonder if 
there is not a lantern in the house? If we could 
only lay our hands upon it!” 

They searched everywhere, and, at last, up- 
stairs in the Widow Chupin’s own apartment, 
they found a well- trimmed lantern, so small and 


32 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


close that it'certainly had never been intended 
for honest purposes. 

“A regular burglar’s implement,’' said Father 
Absi nthe, with a coarse laugh. 

The implement was useful in any case; the 
two men were agreed upon that when they re- 
turned to the garden and recommenced their 
investigations systematically. 

They advanced very slowly and with extreme 
caution. The old man carefully held the lan- 
tern in the best position, and Lecoq, on his 
knees, studied each foot-print with the atten- 
tion of a chiromancer striving to read the future 
in the hand of a* rich client. 

A new examination assured Lecoq that he had 
been correct in his first supposition. It was plain 
that two women had quitted the Poivriere by 
this door. They had departed running; this 
was proved by the length of the steps and also 
by the shape of the foot- prints. 

The difference in the tracks left by the two 
fugitives was so remarkable that it fiid not 
escape Father Absinthe’s eyes. 

he muttered; “one of these jades 
can boast of having a pretty foot at the end of 
her leg!” 

He wag right. One of the tracks betrayed a 
small, coquettish and slender foot, clad in an 
elegant high-heeled boot with a narrow sole and 
an arched instep. 

The other denoted a broad, short foot, that 
grew wider toward the end, and which was in- 
cased in a strong, low shoe. 

This was indeed a clew. Lecoq’s hopes re- 
vived ; so eagerly does a man welcome any sup- 
position that is in accordance with his desires. 

Trembling with anxiety, he went to examine 
other foot-prints a short distance from these; 
and an excited exclamation broke from his lips. 

“"What is it?” eagerly inquired the other 
agent; “what do you see?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


33 


‘‘Come and look for yourself, papa; see there.” 

The good man bent down, and his surprise 
was so great that he almost dropped the lantern. 

“Oh!” said he, in a stifled voice, “a man’s 
foot-print!” 

“Exactly. And this fellow wore the finest of 
boots. 8ee that imprint, how clear, how neat 
it is!” 

Worthy Father Absinthe was furiously scratch- 
ing his ear, his usual method of quickening his 
rather slow wits. 

“But it seems to me,” he ventured at last, 
“that this individual was not coming /?’om this 
ill-fated hovel!” 

“Of course not; the direction of the foot tells 
you that. No, he was not going from here, he 
was coming here. But he did not p?«ss beyond 
the spot where we are now standing. He was 
advancing on tiptoe with outstretched neck and 
listening ears, when, on reaching this spot, he 
heard some noise; fear seized him, and he fled.” 

“Or, , rather, the women were going out as he 
was coming, and — ” 

“No, the women were outside the garden when 
he entered it.” 

This assertion seemed far too audacious to 
suit Lecoq’s companion, who remarked: “One 
cannot be sure of that.” 

“lam sure of it, however; and can prove it 
conclusively. You doubt it, papa? It is be 
cause your eyes are growing old. Bring your 
lantern a little nearer — yes, here it is — our man 
placed his large foot upon one of the marks made 
by the woman with the small foot and has almost 
effaced it.” 

This unexceptionable bit of circumstantial evi- 
dence stupefied the old policeman. 

“Now,” continued Lecoq, “could this man 
have been the accomplice whom the murderer 
was expecting? Might it not have been some 
strolling vagrant whose attention was attracted 


34 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


by the two pistol shots? This is what we must 
ascertain, and we will ascertain it. Come!” 

A wooden fence of lattice- work, a trifle more 
than three feet high, similar to that which pre- 
vents access to the railway trains, was all that 
separated the Widow Chupin’s garden from the 
waste land that surrounded it. 

When Lecoq made the circuit of the house to 
cut off the escape of the murderer, he had en-, 
countered this obstacle, and, fearing lest he 
should arrive too late, he had leaped the bar- 
rier, to the great detriment of his pantaloons, 
without even asking if there was not a gate- 
way. 

One did exist, however. A light gate of lat- 
tice-work similar to the fence, turning upon iron 
hinges and kept closed by a wooden button, al- 
lowed one to enter or depart from this side of the 
garden. 

It was straight to this gate that these foot- 
prints in the snow led the two policemen. 

Some new thought must have struck the 
younger man, for he paused suddenly. 

“Ah!” he murmured, “these two women did 
not come to the Poivriere this evening for the 
first time. ” 

“Why do you think that, my boy?” inquired 
Father Absinthe. 

“I could almost swear it. How, unless they 
were in the habit of coming to this den, could 
they have been aware of the existence of this 
gate? Could they have discovered it this dark 
and foggy night? No; for I, who can, without 
boasting, say that I have good eyes — I did ndt 
see it.” 

“Ah! yes, that is true.” 

“These two women, however, came here with- 
out hesitation, without diverging from a straight 
line; and note that, to do this, it was necessary 
for them to cross the garden diagonally.” 

The veteran would have given sornething if 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


35 


he could have found some objection to offer; but 
unfortunately he could find none. 

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, “yours is a 
droll way of proceeding. You are only a con- 
script; I am a veteran in the service, and have 
assisted in more affairs of this sort than you are 
years old, but never have I seen — ” 

“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, “you will see 
much more. For example, I can prove to you 
that, although the women knew the exact posi- 
tion of the gate, the man knew it only by hear- 
say.” 

“The proof!” 

“The fact is easily demonstrated , papa. Study 
the man’s foot-prints, and you, who are very 
sharp, will see at once that he deviated greatly 
from the straight course. He was in such doubt 
that he was obliged to search for the gate with 
his hands stretched out before him — and his fin- 
gers have left their imprint on the thin covering 
of snow that lies upon the upper railing of the 
fence.” 

The old man would have been glad to verify 
this statement for himself, as he said ; but Lecoq 
was in a hurry. 

“Let us go on, let us go on!” said he. “You 
can verify my assertions some other time.” 

They left the garden and followed the foot- 
prints that led them toward the outer boulevards, 
inclining a little to the right, in the direction 
of the Rue de Patay. 

Now there was no longer any need of close 
attention. No one, save the fugitives, had 
crossed this lonely waste since the last fall of 
snow. A child could have followed the track, 
so clear and distinct was it. 

Four impressions, very unlike in character, 
formed the track; two were those left by the 
women: the other two, one going and one re- 
turning, had been made by the man. 

On several occasions the latter had placed his 


36 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


foot exactly on the foot-prints left by the two 
women, half effacing them, thus doing away 
with all doubts as to the precise moment in 
which he had come. 

About a hundred yards from the Poivriere, 
Lecoq- suddenly seized his colleague’s arm. 

“Halt!” he commanded, “we have reached a 
good place; I can see unmistakable proofs.” 

The spot was an abandoned lumber-yard, or 
rather a reservation belonging to a boat- builder. 
The ground was strewn with large blocks of 
granite, some chiseled, some in the rough, and 
with many long planks and logs of wood. 

Before one of these planks, whose surface had 
evidently been wiped off, all these foot prints 
came together, mingling confusedly. 

“Here,” declared the young detective, “our 
fugitives met this man and took counsel v/ith 
him. One of the women, the one with the little 
feet, sat down upon this log.” 

“We should assure ourselves of this more 
fully,” said Father Absinthe, in an oracular 
tone. 

But his companion cut short these desires for 
verification. 

“You — my old friend,” said he, “are going 
to do me the kindness to keep perfectly still; 
pass me the lantern and do not move.” 

Lecoq’s modest tone had suddenly become so 
imperious that his colleague dared offer no re- 
sistance. 

Like a soldier at the command to halt, he re- 
mained erect, motionless and mute, following 
the movements of his friend with a curious and 
wondering eye. 

Quick in his motions, and understanding how 
to maneuver the lantern in accordance with his 
wishes, the young policeman explored the sur- 
roundings in a very short space of time. 

A bloodhound in pursuit of his prey would 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 37 

have been less alerfc, less discerning, less agile 
than he. 

He came and went, turned, cam0 back again, 
hurried on, or paused without any apparent rea- 
son; he scrutinized, he questioned everything; 
the earth, the logs of wood, the blocks of stone, 
and even the most insignificant objects; some- 
times standjaPppbut oftener on his knees, some- 
times flat upon his belly, his face so near the 
ground that his* breath must have melted the 
snow. 

He had drawn a tape-line from his pocket: hb 
used it with a carpenter’s dexterity, and meas- 
ured, measured, measured. 

And all these movements were accompanied 
with the wild gestures of a madman, interspersed 
with oaths or short laughs, with exclamations 
of disappointment or of delight. 

After a quarter of an hour of this strange ex- 
ercise, he returned to Father Absinthe, placed 
the lantern on a stone, wiped his hands on his 
pocket-handkerchief, and said: 

“How I know all.” 

“Well, that is saying a great deal.” 

“When I say all, I mean ail that is connected 
with this episode of the drama which ended in 
blood in that hovel there. This expanse of earth, 
covered with snow, is an immense white page 
upon which the people we are in search of have 
written, not only their movements and their go- 
ings and comings, but their secret thoughts, the 
hopes and anxieties that agitated them. What 
do these foot-prints say to you, papa? To me 
they are as much alive as the persons who made 
them: they breathe, they speak, they accuse.” 

The old officer was saying to himself: 

“Certainly, this fellow is intelligent; unde- 
niably, he is shrewd ; but he is very disagree- 
able.’’ 

. “These,” pursued Lecoq, “are the facts as I 
have read them. When the murderer repaired 


38 


MONSIEUK LECOQ. 


to the Poivriere with the two women, his com- 
panion — I should call him his accomplice — came 
here to wait. He was a man of middle age and 
tall, wore a soft hat and a shaggy brown over- 
coat, was probably married, as he had a wed’ 
ding-ring on the little finger of his right hand — ” 
The despairing gestures of his companion obliged 
the speaker to pause. ' JnrnT 

This description of a person wnose existence 
had but just now been demonstrated, these pre- 
cise details given in a tone of absolute certainty, 
overturned all Father Absinthe’s ideas com- 
pletely, and increased his perplexity. 

“This is not well,” he growled, “this is not 
kind. You are poking fun at me. I take the 
thing seriously; I listen to you, I obey you in 
everything, and this is the way you mock me. 
We find a clew, and instead of following it up, 
you stop to relate all these absurd stories.” 

“No,” replied his companion; “I am not jest- 
ing, and I have told you nothing of which I am 
not absolutely sure, nothing that is not strictly 
and indisputably true.” 

“And you would have me believe — ” 

“Fear nothing, papa; I would not have you 
do violence to your convictions. When I have 
told you my reasons, and my means of informa- 
tion, you will laugh at the simplicity of the 
theory that seems so incomprehensible to you 
now.” 

“Go on, then,” said the good man, in a tone 
of resignation. 

“We had decided, my friend, that the accom- 
plice mounted guard here. The time seemed 
long, and in order to relieve his impatience he 
paced to and fro the length of this log of wood, 
and occasionally paused in his monotonous 
promenade to listen. Hearing nothing, he 
stamped his foot, doubtless exclaiming: ‘What 
the devil has happened to him down there?’ He 
had made about thirty turns, I have counted 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


39 


them, when a sound broke the stillness — the 
two women were coming.” 

On hearing Lecoq’s recital, all the conflicting 
sentiments that are awakened in a child’s mind 
by a fairy tale — doubt, faith, anxiety, and hope 
— filled Father Absinthe’s heart. 

What should he believe? what should he re- 
fuse to believe? ^’^e did not know. How was 
he to tell the true from the false among all these 
equally surprising assertions? 

On the other hand, the gravity of his compan- 
ion, which certainly was not feigned, dismissed 
all idea of pleasantry. 

Then curiosity began to torture him. 

“We had reached the point where the women 
made their appearance,” said he. 

Dieu! yes,” responded Lecoq; “but 
here all certainty ceases; no more proofs, only 
suppositions. Still, I have every reason to be- 
lieve that our fugitives left the drinking saloon 
before the beginning of the fight, before the cries 
that attracted our attention. Who were they? 
I can only conjecture. I suspect, however, that 
they were not equals in rank. I am inclined to 
think that one was the mistress, the other her 
servant.” 

“That is proved,” ventured the older man, 
“by the great difference in their feet and in 
their shoes.” 

This shrewd observation elicited a smile from 
the young man in spite of his abstraction. 

“This difference,” he replied, seriously, “is 
something; but it was not that which decided 
me in my opinion. If greater or less perfection 
of the extremities regulated social distinctions, 
many mistresses would be servants. What 
struck me was this: 

“When the two women rushed wildly from 
Mother Chupin’s house, the woman with the 
small feet sprang across the garden with one 
bound; she darted on some distance in advance 


40 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


of the other. The horror of the situation, the 
vileness of the den, the horror of the scandal, 
the thought of a place of safety, inspired her 
with marvelous energy. 

“But her strength, as often happens with deli- 
cate and nervous women, lasted only a few sec- 
onds. She was not half way from here to the 
Poivriere when her speed relaxed, her limbs 
trembled. Ten steps further on she tottered 
and almost fell. Some steps further, and she 
became so exhausted that she let go her hold 
upon her skirts; they trailed upon the snow, 
tracing a faint circle there. 

“Then the woman with the broad foot came 
to her aid. She seized her companion around 
the waist; she dragged her along; their foot- 
prints here are mingled confusedly; then seeing 
that her friend was about to fall, she caught her 
up in her strong arms and carried her — and the 
foot-prints made by the woman with the small 
feet cease.” 

Was Lecoq merely amusing himself by in- 
venting this story? Was this scene anything 
but a work of the imagination? 

Was this accent of deep and sincere convic- 
tion which he imparted to his words only 
feigned? 

Father Absinthe was still in doubt, but he 
thought of a way in which he might satisfy his 
uncertainty. 

He caught up the lantern and hurried off to 
examine these foot-prints which he had not 
known how to read, which had been speechless 
to him, but which had yielded their secret to 
another. 

He was obliged to agree with his companion. 
All that Lecoq had described was written there; 
he saw the confused foot-prints, the circle made 
by the sweeping skirts, the cessation of the tiny 
imprints. 

On his return, his countenance betrayed a re- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


41 


spectful and astonished admiration, and it was 
with a shade of embarrassment that he said : 

“You can scarcely blame an old man for being 
a little like St. Thomas. I have touched it with 
my fingers, and now I am content to follow 
you.’' 

The young policeman could not, indeed, blame 
his colleague for his incredulity. 

“Then,” Lecoq continued, “the accomplice, 
who had heard the fugitives coming, ran to meet 
them, and he aided the woman with the large 
feet in carrying her companion. The latter 
must have been really ill, for the accomplice 
took off his hat and used it in brushing the 
snow from this plank. Then, thinking the sur- 
face was not yet dry enough, he wiped it with 
the skirt of his overcoat. Were these civilities 
pure gallantry, or the usual attentions of an in- 
ferior? I have asked myself that question. 

“This much, however, is certain: while the 
woman with the small feet was lecoveiing her 
strength, half reclining upKjn this board, the 
other took the accomplice a little to one side, 
five or six steps aw^ay to the left, just by that 
•enormous block of granite. 

“There she talked with him, and, as he lis- 
tened, the man leaned upon the snow-covered 
stone. His hand left a very distinct imprint 
there. ’ Then, as the conversation continued, he 
rested his elbow upon the snowy surface.” 

Like all men of limited intelligence. Father 
Absinthe had suddenly passed from unreason- 
ing distrust to unquestioning confidence. 

Henceforth he would believe anything, from 
the same reason that had, at first, made him 
believe nothing. 

vYith no idea of the bounds of human reason- 
ing and penetration, he saw no limits to the con' 
jectural genius of his companion. 

With perfect faith, therefore, he inquired: 


42 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


‘‘And what v/as the accomplice saying to the 
woman with the broad shoes?” 

If Lecoq smiled at this naivete, the other did 
not suspect it. 

“It is rather difficult for me to answer that 
question,” he replied. “I think, however, that 
the woman was explaining to the man the im- 
mensity and imminence of the danger that 
threatened his companion, and that they were 
trying to devise some means to rescue him 
from it. Perhaps she’ brought him orders given 
by the murderer. It is certain that she ended 
by beseeching the accomplice to run to the Poi- 
vriere and see what was passing there. And he 
did so, for his tracks start from this block of 
granite.” 

“And only to think,” exclaimed the officer, 
“that we were in the hovel at that very moment. 
A word from Gevrol, and we might have *had 
handcuffs on the whole gang! How unfortu- 
nate!” 

Lecoq was not sufficiently disinterested to 
share his companion’s regret. 

On the contrary, he gave heartfelt thanks for 
Gevrol’s blunder. Had it not been for that, how 
would he ever have found an opportunity of in- 
teresting himself in an affair that grew more 
and more mysterious, but which he hoped to 
fathom finally. 

“To conclude,” he resumed, “the accomplice 
soon returned; he had witnessed the scene, he 
was afraid, and he hastened back. He feared 
that the thought of exploring the premises might 
enter the minds of the police. It was to the lady 
with small feet that he addressed himself. He 
explained the necessity of flight, and told her 
that even a moment’s delay might be fatal. At 
his words, she summoned all her energy; she 
rose, and hastened, clinging to the arm of her 
companion. 

“Did the ma.n indicate the route they were to 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


43 


' take, or did they know it themselves? This much 
is certain; he accompanied them some distance, 
in order to watch over them. 

“But above the duty of protecting these 
women, he had a still more sacred duty to 
perform— that of succoring his accomplice, if 
possible. He retraced his steps, passed here 
again, and the last foot-print that I can dis- 
cover leads in the direction of the Rue du Cha- 
teau-deS' Rentiers. He wished to know what 
would become of the murderer, and went to 
place himself in his path.” 

Like a dilettante who can scarcely restrain 
his applause until the close of the morceau that 
delights him, Father Absinthe had been unable 
to repress his admiratign entirely. 

But it was not until Lecoq ceased speaking 
that he gave full vent to his enthusiasm. 

“Here is a detective,” he exclaimed. “And 
they say that Gevrol is shrewd ! What has he 
ever done to compare with this? Ah! shall I 
tell you what I think? Very well. In compari- 
son with you, the General is only John the Bap- 
tist.” 

Certainly the flattery was gross, but it was 
impossible to doubt its sincerity. This was 
the first time that the balmy dew of praise bad 
fallen upon Lecoq’s vanity; it delighted him. 

“Nonsense,” he replied, modestly; “you are 
too kind, papa. After all, what have I done 
that is so very clever? I told you that the man 
was of middle age. It was not difficult to see 
that after one had examined his heavy and 
rather dragging step. I told you that he was 
tall — an easy matter. When I saw that he had 
been leaning upon that block of granite there to 
the left, I measured the aforesaid block. It was 
sixty-seven mHres in height, consequently a 
man who could rest his elbow upon it must be 
at least six feet high. The impress of his hand 
proves that I am not mistaken. On seeing that 


44 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


he had brushed away the- saow which covered 
the plank, I asked myself what he had used; I 
thought that it might be his cap, and the mark 
left by the visor proves that I was right. 

“Finally, if I have discovered the color and 
the material of his overcoat, it is only because 
when he wiped off the wet board, some splinters 
of the wood tore off a few tiny flakes of brov/n 
wool, which I found, and which will figure in 
the trial. But what does this amount to, after 
all? Nothing. We have discovered only the 
first elements of the affair. We hold the clew, 
however; we will fellow it to the end. Onward, 
then !” 

The old officer was electrified, and, like an 
echo, he repeated : 

“Forward!” 


CHAPTER V. 

That night, the vagabonds, who had taken 
refuge in the neighborhood of the Poivriere, 
slept but little, and that an uneasy slumber, 
broken by sudden starts, and troubled with 
frightful dreams of a descent of the police 
upon them. 

Awakened by the report of the murderer’s pis- 
tol, and supposing it the result of a collision be- 
tween the police and some of their own com- 
rades, most of the frequenters of the locality 
prowled about, eagerly listening and watching, 
and ready to take flight at the least sign of dan- 
ger. 

At first, they could discover nothing at all 
suspicious. 

But later, about two o’clock in the morning, 
just as they were begin niitg to feel secure again, 
the fog lifted a little and they witnessed' a phe- 
nomenon well calculated to arouse their anxiety. 

Upon the unoccupied tract of land, which the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


45 


people of that quarter called “the plain,” a small 
but very bright light was seen (^escribing the 
most capricious evolutions. 

It moved here and there, without any appar- 
ent aim, tracing the most inexplicable zigzags, 
sometimes sinking to the earth, sometimes ris- 
ing, sometimes motionless, and the next second 
flying off like a ball. 

In spite of the place and the season of the 
year, the less ignorant among those vagabonds 
believed it to be the light of the ignis- fatuus^ 
one of the luminous meteors that rise from the 
marshes and float about in the atmosphere at 
the bidding of the wind. 

This ignis-fatuus was the lantern by whose 
light the two policemen were pursuing their 
investigations. 

Before leaving the cabin where he had so sud- 
denly revealed himself to his first disciple, Lecoq 
found himself involved in a cruel perplexity. 

He had not the boldness and promptness of 
decision that is the gift of a prosperous past; 
and ho was hesitating between two undertak- 
ings, which were equally reasonable, and each 
of which offered equally strong probabilities of 
success. 

He stood there between two paths, that made 
by the two women on the one side, that made by 
the accomplice on the other. 

Which should he take? For he could not hope 
to follow both. 

Seated upon the plank where the woman had 
rested a few moments before, with his hand 
pressed upon his forehead, he refiected; he 
weighed his chances. 

“If I follow the man I shall learn nothing 
that I do not know already. He has gone to 
hover ^round the party; he has followed them 
at a distance; he has seen them lock up his ac- 
complice, and he is undoubtedly prowling around 
the station-house. If I hurried in pursuit could 


46 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


I hope to overtake him, to capture him? No; 
too long a time has elapsed.” 

Father Absinthe listened to the monologue 
with intense curiosity, as anxious as an unso- 
phisticated person who is questioning a clairvoy- 
ant in regard to some lost articles, and who is 
awaiting the response of the oracle. 

“To follow the women,” continued the young 
man, “to what would that lead? Perhaps to an 
important discovery; perhaps to nothing.” 

He preferred the unknown with all its chances 
of failure, and all its chances of success, as well. 

He rose; his course was decided. 

“Ah, well!” he exclaimed, “I choose the un- 
known. We are going, Father Absinthe, to fol- 
low the foot-prints of these two women, and 
wherever they lead us we will go.” 

Inspired with equal ardor they began their 
walk. At the end of the path upon which they 
had entered they perceived, as in a magic glass, 
the one, the fruits, the other, the glory of success. 

They hurried forward. At first it was only 
play to follow the distinct foot-prints that led 
toward the Seine. 

But it was not long before they were obliged 
to proceed more slowly. 

On leaving the waste ground they arrived at 
the outer limits of civilization, so to speak; and 
strange foot-prints mingled constantly with the 
foot-prints of the fugitives, mixing with them, 
and sometimes effacing them. 

In many localities, on account of exposure, or 
the nature of the soil, the thaw had done its 
work, and there were large patches of ground 
entirely free from snow. 

In such cases they lost the clew and it took 
all Lecoq’s sagacity, and all his companion’s 
good-will, to find it again. 

On such occasions Father Absinthe planted 
his cane in the earth, near the last foot-pri .t 
that had been discovered, and Lecoq and him- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


47 


self hunted on the ground around this starting- 
point, after the fashion of blood-hounds who 
have been thrown off the scent. 

Then it was that the lantern moved about so 
strangely. 

More than a dozen times, in spite of all their 
efforts, they would have lost the clew entirely 
had it not been for the elegant shoes worn by 
the lady with the little feet. 

These had such small and e ' ' neljr high 
heels that the impression they left l ' id not be 
mistaken. They sank down three or t .mr inches 
in the snow, or in the mud, and their tell-tale 
impress remained as clear and distinct as that of 
a seal upon wax. 

Thanks to these heels, the pursuers were able 
to discover that the two fugitives had not gone 
up the Rue de Patay, as might have been sup- 
posed. Probably they had considered the street 
too much frequented and too well lighted. 

They had only crossed it, just below the Rue 
de la Croix- Rouge, and had profited by an empty 
space between two houses to regain the open 
ground. 

r. . “Certainly these women were well acquainted 
•'with the^lay^^of the land,” murmured Leccq. 

They did indeed know the topography so well 
that, on quitting the Rue de Patay, they had 
suddenly turned to the right, in order to avoid 
several large ditches, which had been opened by 
persons who were seeking earth to be used in the 
manufacture of brick. 

But the trail was recovered, and they followed 
it as far as the Rue du Chevaleret. 

Here the foot-prints abruptly ceased. 

Lecoq discovered eight or ten foot-marks left 
by the woman who wore the broad shoes, but that 
was all. 

“Did these people recollect, at last, that the 
snow might betray them? Did they take the 
middle of the street?” growled the young olficer. 


48 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


C0rtaiiily they could not have crossed to a va- 
cant space as they had done just before, for on 
the other side of the street extended the long wall 
of a factory. 

“Ah!” sighed Father Absinthe, “we have 
our labor for our pains.” 

But Lecoq possessed a temperament that re- 
fused to acknowledge defeat. 

Animated by the cold anger of a man who sees 
the object which he was about to seize disap- 
pear from ]L:s.->re his very eyes, he recommenced 
his search, and was well repaid for his efforts. 

“I understand!” he cried, suddenly. “I com- 
prehend — I see!” 

Father Absinthe drew near. He did not see 
nor divine anything; but he no longer doubted 
the powers of his companion. 

“Look here,” said Lecoq, “what do you see?” 

“Marks left by the wheels of a carriage that 
turned here.” 

“Very well, papa; these tracks explain all. 
When they reached this spot our fugitives saw 
the lights of an approaching fiam'e^ which was 
returning to Paris. It was empty ; it was their 
salvation. They waited here, and when it came 
nearer they called to the coachman. Doubtless 
they promised him a generous pour hoire: this 
is evident, since he consented to go back again. 
He turned short here; they entered the carriage, 
and that is why these foot- prints go no further.” 

This explanation was not pleasing to his com- 
panion. 

“Have we made any great progress now that 
we know that?” he asked. 

Lecoq could not restrain an impulse to shrug 
his shoulder. 

“Did you expect that the tracks made by these 
fugitives would lead us through Paris and up to 
their very doors?” he asked. 

“ISTo; but—” 

“Then what would you ask more? Do you 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


49 


think that I shall not know how to find this 
coachman to-morrow? He was returning with 
his empty carriage, his day’s work was ended; 
hence, his stable is in this neighborhood. Do 
you suppose that he will have forgotten that he 
took up two persons on the Rue du Chevaleret? 
He will tell us where he deposited them; but 
that will not do us any good, for they, of course, 
have not given him their true address. But he 
can give us a description of them, tell us how 
they were dressed, and describe their appearance, 
their manner, and their age. And with that, and 
what we already know — ” 

An eloquent gesture expressed the remainder 
of his thought, then he added : 

“ We must now go back to the Poivriere, and 
go quickly. And you, my friend, may now ex- 
tinguish your lantern.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

"While doing his best to keep pace with his 
companion, who was in such haste to get back 
to the Poivriere that he almost ran, Father Ab- 
sinthe’s thoughts were as busy as his legs, and 
an entirely new idea was awakened in his mind. 

During the twenty- five years that he had been 
connected with the police force the good man — 
to use his own expression — had seen many of his 
colleagues walk over his body, and win, after 
onlj^ a few months’ work, a promotion that his 
long years of service had not gained for him. 

In these cases he had not failed to accuse his - 
superiors of injustice, and his fortunate rivals of 
gross flattery. 

In his opinion, seniority was the only claim to 
advancement — the only, the best, the most re- 
spectable claim. 

When he said: “It is infamous to pass over 


50 


MONSIEUK LECOQ. 


an old member of the service,” he summed up 
his opinions, his griefs, and all his bitterness in 
that one sentence. 

But communing with himself was not this 
good man’s forte; he soon began to weary of it, 
and on reaching a place where they were obliged 
to proceed more slowly on account of the bad- 
ness of the road, he deemed it a favorable oppor- 
tunity to resume the conversation. 

“You say nothing, comrade,” he ventured, 
“and one might swear that you were not con- 
tent.” 

This surprising result of the old man’s reflec- 
tions would have amazed Lecoq if his mind had 
not been a hundred leagues away. 

“Really, I am not content,” he responded. 

“And v/hy, pray? Only ten minutes ago you 
were as gay as a lark. ’ ’ 

“Then I did not foresee the misfortune that 
threatens us.” 

“A misfortune!” 

“A very great misfortune. Do you not per- 
ceive that the weather has undeniably moder- 
ated. It is evident that the wind is from the 
south. The fog has disappeared, but the sky is 
cloudy and the weather is threatening. It will 
rain in less than an hour.” 

“A few drops are falling now; I just felt 
one.” 

These words produced much the same effect 
on Lecoq that a blow of the whip produces on a 
spirited horse. He sprang forward, and, adopt- 
ing a still more hurried pace, he exclaimed : 

“Let us make haste! let us make haste!” 

The old policeman followed him as in duty 
bound; but his mind was, if possible, still more 
troubled by the replies of his young companion. 

A great misfortune! The wind from the 
south! Rain! He did not see, and he could not 
see, the connection. 

Greatly puzzled, and not a little anxious, he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


51 


asked an explanation, although he had but little 
more breath than was necessary to enable him to 
continue the forced march that he was making. 

“Upon my word,” said he, “I haVe racked 
my brains — ” 

His companion took pity on his anxiety. 

“What!” he exclaimed, as he hastened for- 
ward, “you do not understand that our investi- 
gation, my success, and your reward, are depend- 
ent upon those black clouds which the wind is 
driving toward us!” 

“Oh!” 

“Twenty minutes of even a gentle rain, and 
our time and our labor will be lost. If it rains, 
the snow will melt, and farewell to our proofs. 
Let us go on — let us go on more quickly. You 
know very well that in such cases it is necessary 
to bring something more than words. If we de- 
clare to the coroner that we have seen these foot- 
prints, he will ask, where? And what could we 
say? If we swear by all the gods that we have 
seen the foot-prints of a man and of two women, 
the judge will say, ‘Let me see them.’ And 
who would feel sheepish then? Father Absinthe 
and Lecoq. Besides, Gevrol would not fail to 
declare that we were saying what was not true, 
in order to enhance our own value, and to humili- 
ate him.” 

“For example!” 

“Faster, papa, faster; you will have all day 
to-morrow to be indignant. Perhaps it will not 
rain. In that case, these perfect, clear, and rec- 
ognizable foot-prints will be the ruin of the cul- 
prits. How can we preserve them? By what 
process could we solidify them? I would, deluge 
them with my blood if that would cause them to 
congeal.” 

Father Absinthe was thinking that his share 
of the labor thus far had been the least impor- 
tant. 

He had held the lantern. 


52 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


But here was a chance for him to acquire a 
real and substantial right to the prospective re- 
ward. 

He seized it. 

“I knov/,” he declared, “a method by which 
one could preserve these marks in the snow.’’ 

At these words the younger man stopped 
short. 

“Do you know — you?” he interrupted. 

“Yes, I know,” replied the old officer, with 
the evident satisfaction of a man who has 
gained his revenge. “They invented a way at 
the time of that affair at the White House. It 
occurred last winter, in the month of Decem- 
ber.” 

“I recollect.” 

“Ah! well, there was upon the snow in the 
courtyard an impress that attracted the atten- 
tion of a detective. He said that the whole evi- 
dence depended upon that alone, and that it was 
worth more than ten years of hard work in fol- 
lowing up the case. Naturally he desired to 
preserve it. They sent for a great chemist — ” 

“Go on, go on.” 

“I have never seen the method put into prac- 
tice, but an expert told me all about it, and showed 
me the mold they obtained. He even told me 
that he explained it to me fully, on account of 
my profession, and for my instruction.” 

Lecoq was trembling with impatience. 

“And how did they obtain the mold?” he 
asked bruskly. 

“Wait; I was just going to explain. They 
take cards of the best gelatine, and they allow it 
to soak in cold water. When it becomes thor- 
oughly softened, they heat it until it forms a 
liquid, not too thin nor too thick. They allow 
this to cool until it is just cool enough, and then 
they pour a nice little covering of it upon the 
foot-print — ” 

Lecoq felt the irritation that is natural to a 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


53 


person, after he has listened to a bad joke, or 
when one finds that one has lost time in listen- 
ing to a fool. 

“Enough!” he interrupted, angrily. “That 
is Hugonlin’s method; it can be found in all the 
manuals. It is excellent, no doubt; but how 
can it serve us? Have you any gelatine about 
you?” 

“No.” 

“Nor have I. You might as well have coun- 
seled me to pour melted lead upon the foot-prints 
to fix them.” 

They continued their way, and five minutes 
later, without having exchanged another word, 
they re-entered the Widow Chupin’s hovel. The 
first impulse of the older man would have been 
to rest, to breathe. Lecoq did not give him time 
to do so. 

“Make haste; get me an earthen dish^ a plate, 
a vase ; bring me some water ; gather together all 
the boards and old boxes you can find lying 
about.” 

While his companion was obeying him, Lecoq 
armed himself with a fragment of one of the bro- 
ken bottles, and began scraping away furiously 
at the plastered wall that separated the two 
rooms. 

His intelligence, disconcerted at first by the 
imminence of the unexpected catastrophe, had 
regained its equilibrium. He had reflected; he 
had thought of a way by which failure might 
possibly be averted — and he hoped. 

When he had accumulated at his feet seven or 
eight handfuls of the fine plaster-dust, he mixed 
half of it with a little water, forming a thin 
paste, and he left the rest untouched on the side 
of the plate. 

“Now, papa,” said he, “come and hold the 
light for me.” 

When once in the garden, the young man 
sought for the deepest and most distinct of the 


54 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


foot-prints, knelt beside it, and began his experi- 
ment, trembling with anxiety. 

He sprinkled upon the impression a fine coat- 
11.^ of the dry plaster, then upon this coating, 
with infinite care, he poured his liquid solution, 
drop by drop. 

What happiness! the experiment was success- 
ful! It united in a homogeneous mass, forming 
a perfect model of the impress. And after an 
hour’s labor, he possessed half a dozen of these 
casts, which might, perhaps, be a little wanting 
in clearness of outline, but which were quite 
perfect enough to be used as evidence. 

Lecoq had reason for his alarm; it was al- 
ready beginning to rain. 

He had, however, plenty of time to cover with 
the boxes and pieces of board which Father Ab- 
sinthe had collected a number of these . foot- 
prints, which he had, so to speak, put beyond 
the reach of a thaw. 

Now he could breathe. The coroner might 
come. 


CHAPTER VII. 

It was some distance from the Poivriere to 
the Rue du Chevaleret, even by way of the plain 
that made any detours unnecessary. 

It had taken at least four hours for Lecoq and 
his colleague to collect their elements of infor- 
mation. 

And, meantime, the Widow Chupin’s cabin 
had remained open, accessible to any chance 
visitor. 

Still, when the young policeman had on his 
return remembered this 'neglect of the’ first pre- 
cautions, he did not feel alarmed. 

Considering all the circumstances, it was very 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


55 


difficult to believe that any serious harm could 
have resulted from this carelessness. 

For who would have been likely, after ,the 
hour of midnight, to visit this drinking saK a? 
Its bad name erected ,a sort of bulwark around 
it. The most daring of vagrants did not drink 
there without some disq^uietude, fearing, if the 
liquor caused them to lose consciousness, that 
they might be robbed or perhaps murdered. 

Hence it could have been only a very reckless 
person who, feeling a few sous left in his pocket 
on returning late at night from the ball at the 
Hainbow, would have been attracted to this no- 
toriously dangerous saloon by the light that 
streamed through the open door. 

But a single glance at the interior would have 
been enough to put the bravest to flight. 

In less than a second the young policeman had 
weighed all these possibilities, but he had not 
breathed a word. to Father Absinthe. 

When, little by little, the excitement caused 
by his hopes and his success in his experiment 
had died away, and he had returned to his 
habitual calmness, he made a careful inspection 
of the abode, and was by no means satisfied with 
his conduct. 

He had experimented upon Father Absinthe 
with his new system of investigation, as an ap- 
prentice in the tribune tries his powers before 
his least gifted friends, not before the best. 

He had overwhelmed the veteran by his su- 
periority ; he had crushed him. 

If he could only give some startling proofs of 
hie energy or of his penetration! But what had 
he accomplished? Was the mystery solved? Was 
his success more than problematical? When one 
thread is drawn out, the skein is not untangled. 

This night would undoubtedly decide his fu- 
ture as a detective, so he swore that if he could 
not conquer his vanity, he would, at least, oblige 
himself to conceal it. 


56 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Hence it was in a very modest tone that he 
addressed his companion. 

“We have done all that we can outside/’ said 
he; “now would it not be wise to busy ourselves 
with the interior?” ' 

Everything looked exactly as it did when the 
two men left the room. A candle, whose v/ick 
was smoking and charred, threw its red light 
upon the same scene of disorder, and upon the 
rigid features of the three victims. 

Without losing a moment, Lecoq began to 
pick up and to study all the objects scattered 
upon the floor. Some of these still remained 
intact. It seemed that the Widow Chupin had 
recoiled from the expense of a brick floor, judg- 
ing the ground upon which the cabin was built 
quite good enough for the feet of her customers. 

The first fruits of his search were a large salad- 
bowl, and a big iron spoon, which was too much 
twisted and bent not to have been used as a 
weapon during the conflict. 

It was evident that when the quarrel began 
the victims were regaling themselves with that 
mixture of water, wine and sugar, known along 
the barriere under the name of wine a la Fran- 
gaise. 

After the sadad-bowl, the two men picked up 
five of those horrible glasses used in drinking 
saloons, heavy, and very thick at the bottom, 
which look as if they ought to contain half a 
bottle, but which, in reality, contain almost 
nothing. Three were broken, two were whole. 

There had been wine in these five glasses — the 
same wine a la Fi^angaise. They could see it; 
but, for greater surety, Lecoq applied his tongue 
to the bluish mixture remaining in the bottom 
of each glass. 

“The devil!” he murmured, with an aston- 
ished air. 

Then he examined successively the bottoms of 
all the over-turned tables. Upon one of these, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


57 


the one nearest the fireplace and the window, 
they could distinguish the still wet marks of the 
five glasses, of the salad-bowl, and ev^en of the 
spoons. 

This circumstance the young officer very prop- 
erly regarded as a matter of the greatest impor- 
tance, for it proved clearly that five persons had 
emptied the salad-bowl in company. But which 
persons? 

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Lecoq, in two entirely 
different tones. “Then the two women could 
not have been with the murderer!” 

A very simple mode of discovery had presented 
itself. It was to see what the other glasses had 
contained. They discovered one similar in form 
to the others, but much smaller. It had con- 
tained brandy. 

Then these women had not been with the mur- 
derer, therefore he could not have fought be- 
cause the other men had insulted them. 

This discovery had suddenly proved the incor- 
rectness of his suppositions. It was an unexpected 
check, and he was mourning over it in silence, 
when Father Absinthe, who had not ceased fer- 
reting about, uttered a cry of surprise. 

The young man turned; he saw that his com- 
panion had become very pale. 

“ What it it?” he demanded. 

“Some one has been here in our absence.” 

“Impossible!” 

It was not impossible — it was true. 

When Gevrol had torn the apron off the Widow 
Chupin, he had thrown it upon the steps of the 
stairs; neither of the policemen had touched it 
afterward. Ah, well ! the pockets of this apron 
had been turned inside ouV; this was a proof, 
this was evidence. 

Lecoq was overcome by consternation, and the 
contraction of his features revealed the struggle 
in his mind. 


58 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Who could have beeu here?” he murmurecl. 
“Robbers? That is improbable. ” 

Then after a long silence, which his compan- 
ion took good care not to interrupt: 

“The person who came here, who dared to 
penetrate this abode guarded by the corpses of 
these murdered men — this person could have been 
none other than the accomplice. But it is not 
enough to suspect this, it is necessary to know 
it. I must know. I will know!” 

They searched for a long time, and it was not 
until after an hour of earnest work that, in front 
of the door forced open by the police, they dis- 
covered in the mud just inside the marks made 
by GevroTs stamping, a foot-print that bore a 
close resemblance to those left by the man who 
had entered the garden. They compared the 
impressions and recognized the same designs 
formed by the nails upon the sole of the boot. 

“It must have been he!” exclaimed Lecoq. 
“He watched us, he saw us go away, and he en- 
tered here. But why? What pressing, irresisti- 
ble necessity made him decide to brave such im- 
minent danger?” 

He seized his companion’s hand, and nearly 
crushing it in his excitement: 

“Why?” continued he, violently. “Ah! I 
understand only too well. There had been left, 
forgotten or lost here, some article that would 
have served to throw light on this horrible affair. 
And to ’obtain it, to find it, he decided to run 
this terrible risk. And to think that it was my 
fault, my fault alone, tha' this convincing proof 
escaped us! And I thought myself so shrewd! 
What a lesson! The door should have been 
locked; any fool would have thought of it — ” 

He checked himself, and remained with open 
mouth and distended eyes, pointing with his 
finger to one of the corners of the room. 

“What is the matter?” demanded his fright- 
ened companion. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


59 


Lecoq made no reply, but slowly, and with 
the stiff movements of a somnambulist, he ap- 
proached the spot to which he had pointed, 
stooped, picked up something, and said: 

“My folly does not deserve this good fortune.” 

The object he had picked up was an ear-ring, 
of the^ sort that jewelers call buttons. It was 
composed of a single very large diamond. The 
setting was of marvelous workmanship. 

“This diamond,” he declai'e!, aftei^ a mo- 
ment’s examination, “must b,. worth at least five 
or six thousand francs. ” 

“Are you in earnest?” 

“I think I would be willing to take my oath 
on it.” 

He had not said, “I think,” a few hours be- 
fore; he had said very boldlj^, “I swear.” But 
the first mistake was a lesson that would not be 
forgotten so long as he lived. 

“Perhaps it was the same diamond ear-ring 
that the accomplice came to seek.” 

“This supposition is scarcely admissible. In 
that case, he would not have sought for it in 
Mother Chupin’s apron. No, he must have been 
seeking something else — a letter, for example.” 

The older man was not listening; he had taken 
the ear-ring, and was examining it in his turn. 

“And to think,” he murmured, astonished by, 
the brilliancy of the stone, “to think that a 
woman who had ten thousand francs’ worth of 
jewels in her ears should have come to the Poi- 
vriere? Who would have believed it?” 

Lecoq shook his head thoughtfully. “Yes, it 
is very strange, very improbable, very absurd. 
And yet we shall see many things as strange if 
we ever arrive — which I very much doubt — at a 
solution of this mysterious affair.” 


60 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

Day was breaking, raw, cheerless and gloomy, 
when Lecoq and his colleague concluded their 
investigation. 

There was not an inch of space that had not 
been explored, carefully examined, and studied, 
one might almost say, with a magnifying glass. 

There remained now only to make the report. 

The younger man seated himself at the table, 
and began by dra'vi ng a plan of the scene of tlie 
murder, which would, of course, be of great ser- 
vice in making others understand his recital. 



A. — The point where the squad of police, under com- 
mand of Inspector Gevrol, heard the cries of the victims. 

(The distance from this point to the hut known as the 
Poivriere is only one hundred and twenty-three yards; 
Jience, it may reasonably be supposed that these cries were 
the first that were uttered, and consequently that the com- 
bat had just commenced.) 

B. — The window covered with shutters, through the 
openings of which one of the police was able to see the 
scene within. 

C. — The door forced open by Inspector Gevrol. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

D. — Staircase upon which the Widow Clinpin was 
seated, crying. 

(It was upon the third step of tliis staircase that the 
Widow Chupin’s apron was afterward found, the pock- 
ets turned inside out.) 

F. — Fireplace. 

HHH.— Tables. 

(The remnants of the salad-bowl and of the five glasses 
were found scattered on the fioor between the points F 
and B.) 

T. — Door communicating with the back room of the 
hovel, before which the armed murderer was standing. 

K. — Back door of the hut, opening into the garden, by 
whicli the agent of police, who thought of cutting off the 
murderer's retreat, entered. 

L. — Gate of the garden, opening upon the unoccupied 
ground. 

MM. — Footprints on the snow, discovered by the police- 
man remaining at the Poivriere, after the departure of 
Inspector Gevrol. 

Thus it will be seen that in this explanatory 
chart Lecoq had not once written his name. 

In noting the things that he had imagined or 
discovered, he referred to himself simply as one 
of the police. 

This was not modesty so much as calculation. 
By hiding one’s self on well-chosen occasions, 
one gains greater notoriety when one emerges 
from the shadow. 

It was also through cunning that he gave 
Gevrol such a prominent position. 

These tactics, rather subtle, perhaps, but after 
all perfectly fair, could not fail to call attention 
to the man who had shown himself so efficient 
when the efforts of his chief had been confined 
only to breaking open the door. 

The document he drew up was not a verbal 
process, an act reserved for the officers of the 
police judiciary — it was a simple report, that 
would be admitted under the title of an inquiry, 
and yet he composed it with the same care a 
young generVi would have displayed in the bul- 
letin of his first victory. 

While he was drawing and writing, Father 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

Absinthe leaned . over his shoulder to watch 
him. 

The plan amazed that worthy man. He had 
seen a great deal; but he had always supposed 
that it was necessary to be an engineer, an archi- 
tect, or, at least, a carpenter, to execute such a 
work. Not at all. With a tape line with which 
to take some measurements, and a bit of board 
in place of a rule, this inexperienced colleague 
had accomplished the miracle. 

His respect for Lecoq was greatly augmented. 

It is true that the worthy veteran had not no- 
ticed the explosion of the young policeman’s van- 
ity, nor his return to his foremost modest de- 
meanor. He had not observed his alarm, nor 
his perplexity, nor his lack of penetration. 

After a few moments. Father Absinthe ceased 
watching his companion. He felt weary after 
the labors of the night; his head was burning 
and he shivered. 

His knees trembled. 

Perhaps, though he was by no means sensi- 
tive, he felt the influence of the horrors that sur- 
rounded him, and which seemed more sinister 
than ever in the bleak light of morning. 

He began to ferret in the cupboards, and at 
last succeeded in discovering — oh, great good 
fortune! — a bottle of brandy, three-quarters full. 
He hesitated for an instant, then he poured out 
a glassful and drained it at a single draught. 

“Will you have some?” he inquired of his 
companion. “It is not a very famous brand, to 
,be sure; but it is just as good, it makes one’s 
blood circulate and enlivens one.” 

Lecoq refused ; he did not need to be enlivened. 
All his faculties were hard at work. He in- 
tended that, after a single reading of the report, 
the judge should say: “Let the officer who has 
drawn up this document be sent for.” His fu- 
ture depended upon this order. 

He endeavored to be brief, clear and concise, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to plainly indicate how his suspicions on the 
subject of the murder had been aroused, how 
they had increased, and how they had been con- 
firmed. He explained by what series of deduc- 
tions he had succeeded in establishing a truth, 
which, if it was not the truth, was at least plaus- 
ible enough to serve as a basis of further inves- 
tigation. 

/ Then he enumerated the articles of conviction 
ranged on the table before him. 

There were the flakes of brown wool collected 
upon the plank, the valuable ear-ring, the mod- 
els of the different foot-prints in the garden, and 
Widow Chupin’s apron with its pockets turned 
inside out. 

There was also the murderer’s pistol, of whose 
five barrels three were still undischarged. 

This weapon, although ornamented, was re- 
markably well finished, and bore the name of 
one of the best armorers in London; Stephen, 
14 Skinner Street. 

Lecbq felt convinced that by examining the 
bodies of the victims he would find other, and 
perhaps more valuable information; but this he 
dared not do. He was still too inexperienced to 
hazard such a step. Besides, he understood if 
he ran such a risk, Gevrol, furious at his own 
mistake, would not fail to declare that, by 
changing the attitude of the bodies, he had ren- 
dered a satisfactory examination by the physi- 
cians impossible. 

He consoled himself, however, and he was re- 
reading his report, modifying this or that ex- 
pression, when Father Absinthe, who was stand- 
ing upon the threshold of the outer door, called 
him. 

“Is there anything new?” responded Lecoq. 

“Here are Gevrol and two of our comrades 
bringing the commissioner and two other gentle- 
men with them.” 

It was, indeed, the commissioner of police who* 


64 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


was coming, quite interested in this triple mur- 
der that had stained his arrondissement, but not 
very much disturbed by it. 

Why should he be troubled about it? 

Gevrol, whose opinions in such matters must 
be regarded as an authority, had taken care to 
reassure him when he went to arouse him from 
his slumbers. 

“It was only a fight between some old offend- 
ers ; former jail birds, habitues of the Poi vrLere, ’ ’ 
he had said to him. “If all these wretches would 
kill one another, we might have some peace.” 

He added that the murderer had been arrested 
and placed in confinement, and consequently the 
case was not urgent. 

The commissioner therefore saw nothing im- 
proper in waiting until morning before begin- 
ning the inquest. 

He had seen the murderer, reported the case, 
and now he was coming — not in too much haste 
—accompanied by two physicians who had been 
appointed by the government attorney to* make 
medico-leg ales reports in such cases. 

They were also accompanied by a sergeant- 
4. major of the Fifty-third Regiment, of light in- 
fantry, summoned by the commissioner to iden- 
tify, if possible, the murdered man, who wore a 
uniform, and who, if one might believe the 
number engraved upon the buttons of his over- 
coat, belonged to the Fifty-third Regiment, now 
stationed at the fort. 

Inspector Gevrol was even less disturbed than 
the commissioner. He whistled as he walked 
along, flourishing his cane, which never left his 
hand, and making merry -at the discomfiture of 
the presumptuous fool who had desired to remain 
to glean where he, the experienced and skillful 
officer, had perceived nothing. 

As soon as he was within hearing distance, the 
inspector called to Father Absinthe, who, after 
warning Lecoq, remained on the thrsehold, lean- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


65 


ing against the door-post, puffing his pipe, as 
immovable as a sphinx. 

“Ah, well, old man!” cried Gevrol, “have 
yon any great melodrama, very dark and very 
mysterious, to relate to us?” 

“I myself have nothing to relate,” replied 
the worthy addressed, without even drawing his 
pipe from his lips; “I am too stupid; that is 
perfectly understood. But Monsieur Lecoq will 
tell you something that will astonish you.” 

This title “monsieur,” which the old police- 
man bestowed upon lais colleague, displeased 
Gevrol so much that he pretended not to under- 
stand. 

“Who?” said he, “of whom are you speaking.” 

“Of my colleague, of course, who is now busy 
finishing his report — of Monsieur Lecoq.” 

Although unintentionally, the good man had 
certainly become the young policeman’s godfa- 
ther. From that day forward, to his enemies as 
well as to his friends, he was, and he remained, 
Monsieur Lecoq. 

“Ah! ah!” said the inspector, whose hearing 
was evidently impaired. “Ah, he has discov- 
ered — ” 

“The pot of roses which others did not scent, 
General.” 

By this remark Father Absinthe made an en- 
emy of his superior officer. But Lecoq had won 
him entirely. He had taken sides with Lecoq, 
and to Lecoq, against every one else, if neces- 
sary, he had determined to attach himself, and 
to share good fortune or bad fortune with him. 

“We will see,” murmured the inspector, men- 
tally resolving to have an eye on this youth whom 
success might transform into a rival. 

*He said no more. The little party which he 
preceded had arrived, and he stood aside to 
make way for the commissioner of police. 

This commissioner was not a debutant. He 
had served for many years, and yet he could not 


66 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


repress a movement of horror on entering the 
Poiv'riere. 

The sergeant-major of the Fifty-third who fol- 
lowed him, an old soldier, decorated and medaled, 
was still more overcome with horror. He be- 
came as pale as the corpses that were lying there, 
and was obliged to lean against the wall for 
support. 

Only the two physicians retained their stoical 
indifference. 

Lecoq had risen, his report in his hand; he 
had bowed, and assuming a respectful attitude, 
was waiting to be interrogated. 

“You must have passed a frightful night,” 
said the commissioner, kindly, “and quite un- 
necessarily, since any investigation was super- 
fluous.” 

“I think, however,” replied the young man, 
armed with diplomacy, “that my time has not 
been entirely lost. I have conformed to the in- 
structions of my superior officer ; I have searched 
the premises thoroughly, and I have ascertained 
many things. I have, for example, acquired the 
certainty that the murderer had a friend, possi- 
bly an accomplice, of whom I can give quite a 
close description. He must have been of middle 
age, and wore, if I am not mistaken, a soft cap 
and a brown woolen overcoat ; as for his boots — ” 

“Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, “and I — ” 

He stopped short, like a man whose impulse 
had exceeded his discretion, and who would have 
gladly taken back his words. 

“And you?” questioned the commissioner. 
“What do you mean?” 

Furious, but having gone too far to draw 
back, the inspector was obliged to act as his own 
executioner. 

“I was about to say that this morning, about 
an hour ago, while I was waiting for you. Mon- 
sieur le Commissaire, before the station-house of 
the Barriere dTtalie, where the murderer is con- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


67 


fiaed, I saw at some little distance an individual 
whose appearance was not unlike that of the 
man described by Lecoq. This man appeared to 
be greatly intoxicated; he reeled and staggered 
against the walls. He tried to cross the street, 
but fell down in the middle of it, in such a posi- 
tion that he would inevitably have been crushed 
by the first passing vehicle.” 

Lecoq turned away his head; he did not wish 
them to read in his eyes how perfectly he under- 
stood the whole game. 

“Seeing this,” pursued Gevrol, “I called two 
men and asked them to aid me in raising the 
poor wretch. We went to him; he had appar- 
ently fallen asleep: we shook him — we made him 
sit up ; we told him that he could not remain 
there, but immediately he flew into a furious 
rage. He swore at us, he threatened us, he tried 
to fight us. And, upon my word! we took him 
to the station-house, and left him there to re- 
cover from his debauch.” 

“Did you shut him up in the same room with 
the murderer?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Naturally. You know very well there are 
but two cages in the station-house at the bar- 
riere — one for the men, the other for the women ; 
consequently — ” 

The commissioner seemed thoughtful. “Ah! 
this is very unfortunate,” he murmured; “and 
there is no remedy.” 

“Pardon me, there is one,” objected Gevrol. 
“I can send one of my men to the station-house 
with an order to detain the drunken man—” 

Lecoq interrupted him with a gesture. 

‘'Trouble lost,” he said, coldly. “If this in- 
dividual is an accomplice, he has become sober, 
rest assured of that, and is far away by this 
time.” 

“Then what is one to do?’^ demanded the in- 
spector, with an ironical air. “May one be per- 


68 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


mitted to inquire the opinion of Monsieur Le- 
coq?’’ 

“I think chance offered us a splendid oppor- 
tunity, and we did not know how to seize it; 
and that the best thing we can do now is to 
make our period of mourning for it as short as 
possible, and to stand ready to embrace the next 
opportunity that offers itself.” 

Gevrol was, however, determined to send one 
of his men to the station-house; and when the 
messenger had departed, Lecoq commenced the 
reading of his report. 

He read it rapidly, refraining as much as pos- 
sible from placing the decisive proofs in strong 
relief, reserving these for his own benefit; buhso 
strong was the logic of his deductions that he 
was frequently interrupted by approving remarks 
from the commissioner, and by the “very well!” 
of the physicians. 

Gevrol, who alone represented the opposition, 
elevated his shoulders until they entirely con- 
cealed his neck, and became literally green with 
jealousy. 

The report being concluded : 

“I think that you alone, young man, have 
judged correctly in this affair,” said the com- 
missioner. “I may be mistaken, but your ex- 
planations have made me look at the attitude as- 
sumed by the murderer while I was questioning 
him (which was only for a moment) in an en- 
tirely different light. He refused, obstinately 
refused, to make any reply to my questions. He 
would, not even consent to tell his name. ’ ’ 

He was silent for a moment, reviewing the 
past circumstances in his mind, and it was in a 
serious tone that he added : 

“We are, I feel convinced, in the presence g 2 
one of those mysterious crimes, the causes of 
which are beyond the reach of human sagacity 
— one of those mysterious cases which human 
justice never can reach.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


69 


Lecoq hid a slight smile. 

“Oh I ’ thought he, “we will see about that.’* 


CHAPTER IX. 

Xo consultation held at the bedside of a 
man dying of some unknown disease ever took 
place in the presence of two physicians so utterly 
unlike as those who, upon the requisition of the 
government attorney, accompanied the commis- 
sioner of police. 

One, large, old, and totally bald, wore a broad- 
brimmed hat, and an overcoat of antique cut, 
over his ill-fitting black coat. He was one of 
those modest savants whom one encounters 
sometimes in the by- places of Paris — one of 
those healers devoted to their art, who too often 
die in obscurity, after rendering immense ser- 
vice to mankind. 

■ He had the gracious calmness of a man who, 
having seen much of human misery, compre- 
hended everything; and no troubled conscience 
could sustain his searching glance, which was 
as keen as his lancet. 

The other, young, fresh, light-haired, and jo- 
vial, was even foppishly attired; and his white 
hands were incased in handsome fur gloves. His 
glance was ever caressing or smiling. He was 
a man who would have been likely to recommend 
all those infallible panaceas invented each month 
in the chemists’ laboratories and advertised on 
the fourth page of the newspapers. He had 
probably written more than one article upon 
“Medicine for the use of all mankind.” 

“I will request you, gentlemen, to begin your 
duties by examining that one of the victims who 
wears the military costume. Here is a sergeant- 
major summoned to answer a question of iden- 


70 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


tity, whom I must send back to his quarters as 
soon as possible. ” 

The two physicians responded with a gesture 
of assent, and, aided by Father Absinthe and 
another agent of police, they lifted the bod}^ and 
laid it upon two tables, which had previously 
been placed end to end. 

They were not obliged to make any note of the 
attitude in which they found the body, since the 
unfortunate man, who was still alive when the 
police entered the cabin, had been moved before 
he expired. 

Approach, sergeant,” ordered the commis- 
sioner, “and look carefully at this man.” 

It was with very evident repugnance that the 
old soldier obeyed. 

“What is the uniform that he wears?” 

“It is the uniform of the Fifty- third Regulars, 
2d battalion, company of light infantry.” 

“Do you recognize him?” 

“Not'at all.” 

“Are you sure that he does not belong to your 
regiment?” 

“I cannot say certainly; there are some con- 
scripts at the depot whom I have never seen. 
But I am ready to swear that he has never 
formed a part of the 2d battalion — which, by the 
way, is mine — in the division of light infantry, 
of which I am sergeant-major.” 

Lecoq, who had until now remained in the 
background, stepped forward. 

“It might be well,” he suggested, “to note 
the numbers marked upon the other articles of 
clothing.” 

“That is a very good idea,” said the commis- 
sioner, approvingly. 

“Here is his hat,” added the young police- 
man. “It bears the number 3,129.” 

They followed Lecoq’s advice, and soon dis- 
covered that each article of clothing upon the 
unfortunate man bore a different number. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


71 


/ Mon DieiiP'* murmured the sergeant ; “there 
As every indication — But it is very singular.” 

Invited to scrupulously verify his assertions, 
the brave trooper evidently made an effort to 
collect all his intellectual faculties. 

“I would, stake my epaulets that this man 
never was a soldier,” he said at last. “This in- 
dividual must have disguised himself, probably 
to take part in the Shrove Sunday carnival.” 

“Why do you think that?” 

^^Dame! I know this better than I can ex- 
plain it. I know it by his hair, by his nails, by 
his whole appearance, by a certain je ne sais 
quoi; in short, I know it by everything and by 
nothing. And see, the poor devil did not even 
know how to put on his shoes: he has laced his 
gaiters wrong side outward.” 

Evidently further doubt was impossible after 
this evidence, which confirmed the truth of Le- 
coq’s first remark to Inspector Gevrol. 

“Still, if this person was a civilian, how could 
he have procured this clothing?” insisted the 
commissioner. “Could he have borrowed it from 
the men in your company?” 

“Yes, that is barely possible ; but it is diffi- 
cult to believe it.” 

“Is there no way by which you could ascer- 
tain?” 

“Oh! very easily. I have only to run over to 
the fort and order an inspection of clothing.” 

“Do that,” approved the commissioner; “it 
would be an excellent way of getting at the 
truth.” 

But Lecoq had just thought of a method 
just as convincing, and much more prompt. 

“One word, sergeant,” said he; “is not the 
cast-off and condemned clothing of your men 
sold at public auction?” 

“Yes; at least once a year, after the inspec- 
tion.” 


72 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“And are not the articles thus sold marked ii 
Borne way?” 

“Assuredly.” 

“Then see if there is not some mark of this 
kind upon the uniform of this poor wretch.” 

The officer turned up the collar of his coat and 
examined the waistband of the pantaloons, and 
said: 

“You are right — these are condemned gar- 
ments.” 

The eyes of the young policeman sparkled, but 
they emitted only a single gleam of triumph. 

“ We must then believe that this poor devil 
had purchased this costume,” he 'observed. 
“Where? Necessarily at the Temple, in the 
store of one of those merchants who deal in mil- 
itary clothing. There are only five or six of these 
establishments. I will go from one to another 
of them, and the person who sold this clothing 
will certainly recognize it by some trade-mark.” 

“And that will assist us very much,” growled 
Gevrol. 

The sergeant-major, to his great relief, re- 
ceived permission to retire, but not without hav- 
ing been warned that very probably the commis- 
sioner would require his deposition. 

The moment had come to search the body of 
the pretended soldier, and the commissioner, who 
performed this duty himself, hoped that some in- 
formation as to the identity of this man would 
be revealed. 

He proceeded with his task, dictating at the 
same time to one of the men his verbal-process; 
that is to say, a minute description of all the 
articles he found upon the dead man’s person. 

These were: in the right-hand pocket of the 
pantaloons, some smoking tobacco, a pipe and a 
few matches; in the left pocket, a very much 
soiled leather pocket-book, containing seven 
francs and sixty centimes, and a linen pocket- 
handkerchief of good quality, but unmarked. ’ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


73 


And nothing more! 

The commissioner was regretting this, when, 
on carefully examining the pocket-book, he found 
a compartment which had at first escaped his 
notice on account of being hid under a leather 
flap. 

In this compartment was a carefully folded 
paper. He unfolded it and read the contents 
aloud : 

“My dear Gustave— To-morrow, Sunday 
evening, do not fail to come to the ball at the 
Rainbow, according to our agreement. If you 
have no money, pass my house, and I will leave 
some with the concierge, who will give it to you. 
Be there at eight o’clock. If I am not already 
there, it will not be long before I make my ap- 
pearance. All is well. Lacheneur.” 

Alas! what did this letter reveal? Only that 
the dead man’s name was Gustave; and that he 
had some connection with a man named Lache- 
neur, who had advanced him money for a cer- 
tain object; and that they had met at the Rain- 
bow some hours before the murder. 

It was little — very little. It was something, 
however. It was a clew; and in this absolute 
darkness even the faintest gleam of light was 
eagerly welcomed. 

“Lacheneur!” growled Gevrol; “the poor 
devil uttered that name in his last agony.” 

“Precisely,” insisted Father Absinthe; “and 
he declared that he wished to revenge himself 
upon him. He accused him of having drawn 
him into a trap. Unfortunately, death cut his 
story short.” 

Lecoq was silent. The commissioner of police 
had handed him the letter, and he was studying 
it with the closest attention. 

The paper was of the ordinary kind; the ink 
was blue. In one of the corners was a half- 


74 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


effaced mark, upon which one could distinguish 
only the name : Beaumarchais. 

This was enough for Lecoq. 

“This letter,” he thought, “was certainly 
written in a cafe an the Boulevard Beaumar- 
chais. In which one? I will find out, for this 
Lacheneur must be found.” 

While the men of the prefecture were gathered 
around the commissioner, holding council and 
deliberating, the physicians began their delicate 
and disagreeable task. 

With the assistance of the obliging Father 
Absinthe, they removed the clothing of the pre- 
tended soldier, and, bending over their “sub- 
ject” like surgeons in the schools of anatomy, 
with sleeves rolled up, they examined, inspected, 
and appraised him physically. 

Very willingly would the artist-doctor have 
dispensed^with these formalities, which he con- 
sidered very ridiculous, and entirely unneces- 
sary ; but the old physician had too high a re- 
gard for his profession, and for the duty he had 
been called upon to fulfill, to neglect the slight- 
est detail. 

Minutely, and with the most scrupulous ex- 
actitude, he noted the height of the dead man, 
his supposed age, the nature of his temperament, 
the color and the length of his hair, and the de- 
gree of development of his muscular system. 

Then they passed to an examination of the 
wound. 

Lecoq had judged correctly. The doctors had 
declared it a fracture of the base of the skull. It 
could, they stated in their report, have been 
caused only by the action of some instrument 
with a very broad surface, or by a violent knock 
of the head against some hard substance of con- 
siderable magnitude. 

But no weapon, other than the revolver, had 
been found; and that was not heavy enough to 
produce such a wound. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


75 


There must, then, necessarily, have been a 
hand-to hand struggle between the pretended sol- 
dier and the murderer; and the latter, seizing 
his adversary by the throat, had dashed him vio- 
lently against the wall. 

The presence of very tiny and very numerous 
spots of extravasated blood about the neck, made 
these conclusions extremely plausible. 

They did not find any other wound, not a 
bruise, not a scratch — nothing! 

Hence, it was evident that this terrible strug- 
gle must have been exceedingly short. 

Between the moment when the squad of police 
had heard the shrieks, and the moment when 
Lecoq had peered through the shutter and seen 
the victim, fall, this slaughter must have been 
consummated. 

The examination of the other murdered men 
required different but even greater precautions. 

Their position had been respected; they were 
still lying across the hearth as they had fallen, 
and their attitude was a matter of great impor- 
tance, since it would have an important bearing 
on the case. 

And this attitude was such that one could not 
fail to be impressed with the idea that their 
death had been instantaneous. 

Both of them were stretched out upon their 
backs, their limbs extended and their hands wide 
open. 

No contraction, no torsion of the muscles, no 
trace of combat; they had been taken unawares. 

The faces of both men expressed the most in- 
tense fear. One might suppose, if he believed 
the theory of Devergie, that the last sentiment 
they had experienced in life had been neither 
anger nor hatred, but terror. 

“Thus,’^ said the old doctor, “we may reason- 
ably suppose that they must have been stupefied 
by some entirely unexpected, strange, and fright- 
ful spectacle. This terrified expression, written 


76 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


upon their faces, I have noticed more than once 
upon the features of a woman who suddenly died 
from the shock she experienced in seeing one of 
her neighbors enter her house to play a trick 
upon her, disguised as a phantom.” 

Lecoq drank in these explanations given by 
the physicians and tried to make them conform 
to the vague hypotheses that were revolving in 
his own brain. 

But who could these individuals be? Would 
they in death guard the secret of their identity, 
as the other victim had done? 

The first subject examined by the physicians 
was over fifty years of age. His hair was very 
thin and quite gray ; his face was closely shaven, 
except for a thick tuft of hair that decorated his 
rather prominent chin. 

He was very poorly clad in pantaloons that 
hung in rags over boots which Were trodden 
down at the heel, and in a much soiled woolen 
blouse. 

The old doctor declared that this man must 
have been instantly killed by a bullet; the size 
of the circular wound, the absence of blood 
around its edge, and the blackened and burned 
flesh demonstrated this fact with almost mathe- 
matical precision. 

The great difference in the wounds made by 
fire-arms, according to the distance from which 
the death-dealing missile comes, was seen when 
the physicians began the autopsy of the last of 
the unfortunates. 

The ball that had caused his death had scarcely 
traversed a yard of space before it reached him, 
and his wound was not nearlj^ so hideous in 
aspect as the other. 

This individual, who was at least fifteen years 
younger than his companion, was small and re- 
markably ugly. 

His entirely beardless face was everywhere 
scarred by the small-pox. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


77 


His garb was such as is worn by the worst 
denizens of the harriere. His trousers were of 
gray checked material, and his blouse was turned 
back en revers at the throat. His boots had 
been blackened. The little glazed cap that lay 
on the floor beside him was in harmony with his 
pretentious coiffure and his gaudy cravat. 

But these were all the facts that the physi- 
cians’ report set forth in technical terms; this 
was all the information that had been obtained 
by the most careful investigation. 

Vainly the' pockets of the two men had been 
explored and turned inside out; they contained 
nothing that would give the slightest clew to 
their personality, to their name, to their social 
portion, or to their profession. 

Not even the slightest indication — not a letter, 
not an address, not a fragment of paper; noth- 
ing — not even the common articles of personal 
use, such as a tobacco-box, a knife, a pipe, which 
might be recognized*, and thus establish the 
identity of its owner. 

Some tobacco in a paper bag, some pocket- 
handkerchiefs that were unmarked, some rolls of 
cigarettes — these were all that had been discov- 
ered. 

* The elder man had . sixty-seven francs about 
him; the younger, two louis. 

Rarely had the police found themselves in the 
presence of so terrible an affair, without some 
slight clew to guide them. 

With the exception of the fact itself, proved 
only too well by the bodies of the three victims, 
they were ignorant of everything connected with 
it, of the circumstances and of the motive; and 
the probabilities, instead of dissipating the un- 
certainty, only augmented it. 

Certainly they might hope, by the aid of time, 
strenuous effort, and the powerful means of in- 
vestigation which they have at their disposal, to 
finally arrive at the truth. 


78 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Bat, meanwhile, all was mystery — so much so 
that they could not even say who was to blame. 

The murderer had been arrested; but if he 
persisted in his obstinacy, how were they to as- 
certain his name? He protested his innocence; 
how were they to furnish any proofs of his guilt? 

They knew nothing in regard to the victims; 
and one of them had with his dying breath ac- 
cused himself. 

An inexplicable influence tied the tongue of 
Widow Chupin. 

Two women, one of whom had lost an ear- 
ring* valued at five thousand francs, had wit- 
nessed the struggle — then disappeared. An .ac- 
complice, after two acts of unheard-of audacity, 
had made his escape. 

And all these people — the women, the mur- 
derer, the keeper of the saloon, the accomplice, 
and the victims — were equally strange and mys- 
terious, equally suspected of not being what they 
seemed to be. 

Perhaps the commissioner thou'^ht he would 
spend a very Unpleasant quarter of an hour at 
the prefecture when he reported the case. Cer- 
tainly he spoke of his impressions on the subject 
in a very despondent tone. 

“It will now be best,” he said at. last, “to 
transport these three bodies to the morgue. There 
they will doubtless be identified.” 

He reflected a moment, then added : 

“And to think that one of these dead men is 
perhaps Lacheneur himself!” 

“That is scarcely possible,” said Lecoq. “The 
disguised soldier, being the last to die, had seen 
his companions fall. If he had supposed Lache- 
neur dead, he would not have spoken of ven- 
geance. ’ ’ 

Gevrol, who for the past two hours had pre- 
tended to pay no attention to the proceedings, 
now approached. He was not the man to yield 
even to the strongest evidence. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


79 


“If Monsieur le Commissaire will listen to me, 
he shall hear my opinion, which is a trifle more 
deflnite than M. Lecoq’s fancies.” 

The sound of wheels before the door of the 
cabin interrupted him, and an instant after the 
judge of instruction * entered the room. 


CHAPTER X. 

There was not a person in the Poivriere who 
did not know, at least by sight, the judge who 
had just entered, and Gevrol, an old habitue of 
the Palais de Justice, murmured his name : 

“M. Maurice d’Escorval.” 

He was the son of that famous Baron d’Escor- 
val, who, in 1815, sealed his devotion to the em- 
pire with his blood, and upon whom Napoleon, 
at St. Helena, pronounced this magnificent eulo- 
gium : 

“Men as honest as he may, I believe, exist; 
but more honest, no, it is not possible.” 

Having entered upon his duties as a magis- 
trate early in life, and being endowed with a re- 
markable talent for his vocation, it had been sup- 
posed that he would rise to the most exalted 
rank in his profession. But he had disappointed 
such prognostications by resolutely refusing all 
the more elevated positions that men offered to 
him, in order to continue his modest but useful 
functions in the tribunal of the Seine. 

. To explain his refusals, he said that life in 
Paris had more charms for him than the most 
enviable advancement. But it was hard to under- 
stand this declaration on his part, for in spite of 


* In French law, the term “instruction” is applied to 
the investigation and preparation of a case for trial. 

And the judge of instruction is the official changed with 
collecting proofs and testimony, and in preparing the case 
for presentation to the court. 


80 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


his brilliant connections and large fortune, he 
had, since the death of his eldest brother, led a 
most retired existence, concealing his life, or re- 
vealing it only by his untiring labors and the 
good he did to those around him. 

He was now about fortj^-two years of age, but 
appeared much younger, although furrows were 
beginning to show themselves upon his forehead. 

One would have admired his face, had it not 
been for the puzzling immobility that marred its 
beauty, the sarcastic curl of the thin lips, and the 
gloomy expression of his pale-blue eyes. 

To say that he was cold’and grave did not ex- 
press the truth; it was saying too little. He was 
gravity and coldness personified, with a shade of 
hauteur added. 

Impressed by the horror of the scene the in- 
stant he placed his foot upon the threshold, M. 
d’Escorval acknowledged the presence of the 
physicians and the commissioner only by an 
abstracted nod of the head. The others in the 
room had no existence so far as he was con- 
cerned. 

Already his faculties were at work. He stud- 
ied the ground, and carefully noted all the sur- 
roundings with the attentive sagacity of a judge 
who realizes the immense weight of even the 
slightest detail, and who understands the elo- 
quence of circfimstantial evidence. 

“It is a serious affair,” he said, gravely; 
“very serious.” 

The commissioner’s only response was to lift 
his eyes to heaven. A gesture that said very 
plainly: 

“I am quite in accord with you!” 

The fact is, that for the past two hours 
the worthy commissioner’s responsibility had 
weighed heavily upon him, and he secretly 
blessed the judge for relieving him of it. 

“The government solicitor was unable to ac- 
company me,” resumed M. d’Escorval, “he has 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


81 


not the gift of omnipresence, and I doubt if it is 
possible for him to join me here. Let us, there- 
fore, begin operations at once.” 

The curiosity of those present was becoming 
unendurable; and the commissioner only ex- 
pressed the general feeling when he said: 

“You, sir, have undoubtedly questioned the 
murderer, and have learned — ” 

“I have learned nothing,” interrupted M. 
d’Escorval, apparently much astonished at the 
interruption. 

He seated himself, and while his clerk was 
busy in authenticating the commissioner’s ver~ 
hal-process, he . began the perusal of the report 
written by Lecoq. 

Pale, agitated, and nervous, that young police- 
man, hidden in a remote corner, tried to read 
upon the impassive face of the magistrate the 
impression produced by the document. 

It was his future that was at stake — that de- 
pended upon this man’s approval or disapproval. 

It was not with a stupid mind like that of Fa- 
ther Absinthe that he had to deal now, but with 
a superior intelligence. 

“If I could only plead my own cause,” ho 
thought. “What are cold, written phrases in 
comparison with spoken, living words, palpitat- 
ing with emotion and with the convictions of 
the soul that utters them.” 

But he was soon reassured. 

The face of the judge retained its immobility, 
but he nodded his head in token of approval, and 
occasionally some point more ingenious than the 
others extorted from his lips the exclamation: 
“Not bad! — very good!” 

When he had finished its perusal: 

“All this,” he remarked to the commissioner, 
“is quite unlike your report of this morning, 
which represented this mysterious affair as a 
low broil between some miserable vagabonds.” 

This observation’ was only too just; and the 


82 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


commissioner deeply reg'retted that he had trust- 
ed to the representations of Gevrol and remained 
warm in bed. 

“This morning,” he responded, evasively, “I 
only gave my first impressions. These have been 
modified with subsequent researches, so that—” 

“Oh!” interrupted the judge, “I did not in- 
tend to reproach you; on tho contrary, I must 
congratulate you. One could not have done bet- 
ter nor acted more promptly. All this instruc- 
tion shows great penetration and research; and 
the results are given with unusual clearness and 
wonderful precision.” 

Lecoq’s head whirled. 

The commissioner hesitated for an instant. 

He was sorely tempted to confiscate this praise 
to his own profit.* 

If he drove away the unworthy thought, it was 
because he was an honest man, and more than 
that, because it did not displease him to have an 
opportunity to do Gevrol a bad turn and punish 
him for his presumptuous folly. 

“I must confess,” he said, with some hesita- 
tion, “that the honor of this investigation does 
not belong to me.” 

“To whom, then, shall I attribute it, if not to 
the inspector?” thought M. d’Escorval, not with- 
out surprise, for having occasionally employed 
Gevrol, he did not expect from him such in- 
genuity and sagacity as was displayed in this 
report. 

“Is it you, then, who have conducted this in- 
vestigation so ably?” he demanded. 

“Upon my word, no!” responded Inspector 
Gevrol. “I myself am not so clever as all that. 
I content myself with telling only what I may 
discover: and I say: ‘Here it is!’ May I be 
hung if the grounds of this report exist, except 
in the brain of the man who has made it.” 

Perhaps he really believed his assertion, being 
one of those persons who are blinded by vanity 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


83 


to such a degree that, with the most convincing 
evidence before their eyes, they deny it. 

“Yet,” insisted the judge, “these women 
whose foot-prints were left here have existed. 
The accomplice who left the bits of wool upon 
the plank is a real being. This ear-ring is a 
positive, palpable proof.” 

Gevrol had hard work to refrain from shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

“All this can be satisfactorily explained with- 
out a search of twelve or fourteen hours. That 
the murderer had an accomplice is possible. The 
presence of the women is very natural. Where- 
ever there are men thieves, you will find women 
thieves. As for the diamond — what does that 
prove? That the scoundrels had just met with a 
streak of good luck, that they had come here to 
divide their booty, and that the quarrel arose 
from the division.” 

This was an explanation and such a plausible 
one that M. d’Escorval was silent, reflecting be- 
fore he announced his decision. 

“Decidedly,” he declared at last, “decidedly, 
I adopt the hypothesis set forth in the report. 
Who is the author of it?” 

Anger made Gevrol as red as a lobster. 

“The author is one of my men,” he replied; 
“a very clever and adroit man — Monsieur Lecoq. 
Come forward, Lecoq, that the judge may see 
you.” 

The young man advanced, his lips tightly 
compressed to conceal a smile of satisfaction. 

“My report is only a summary, monsieur,” he 
began; “but I have certain ideas — ” 

‘ ‘ Which you will tell me when I ask for them, ’ ’ 
interrupted the judge. 

And oblivious of Lecoq’s chagrin, betook from 
the portfolio of his clerk two forms, which he 
filled up and handed to Gevrol, saying: ^ 

“Here are two orders; take them to the 'sta- 
tion-house, where the accused and the mistress 


84 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


of this cabin are confined, and have them con- 
ducted to the prefecture, where they will be pri- 
vately examined.” 

When he had giv:en these directions, M. d’Es- 
corval was turning toward the physicians, when 
Lecoq, at the risk of a second rebuff, interposed. 

^‘May I venture,” he asked, “to beg monsieur 
to confide this mission to me?” 

“Impossible; I may have need of you here.” 

“I desired, monsieur, to collect certain evi- 
dence, and an opportunity to do so may not pre- 
sent itself again.” 

The judge, perhaps, fathomed the young man’s 
motive. 

“So be it,” he replied, “but after your task is 
completed you will await me at the perfecture, 
where I shall go as soon as I have finished here. 
Go.” 

Lecoq did not wait for him to repeat the order. 
He snatched up the papers, and hastened away. 

He did not run; he flew over the ground. He 
no longer experienced any fatigue from the la- 
bors of the preceding night. Never had be felt 
so strong and alert in body, so strong and clear 
in mind. 

He was hopeful of success. He had confidence 
in himself, and he would have been perfectly 
happy if he could have had another judge to deal 
with. But M. d’Esoorval overawed and froze 
him to such a degree that his mind seemed abso- 
lutely paralyzed in his presence. With what a 
disdainful glance he had surveyed him ! With 
what an imperious tone he had imposed silence 
upon him — and that, too, when he had found his 
work deserving of commendation. 

“But, nonsense!” he mentally exclaimed, 
“does one -ever taste perfect happiness here 
below ?’^ 

ilnd he hurried on. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


85 


CHAPTER XI. 

YT'hen, after a rapid walk of twenty minutes, 
Lecoq reached the police station at the Barriere 
d’ltalie, the keeper, with his pipe in his mouth, 
was pacing slowly to and fro before the guard- 
house. 

By his thoughtful air, and by the anxious 
glanc' ohat he cast now and then upon the little 
grated window, any passer-by might have known 
that the keeper had at that moment a very rare 
bird in his cage. 

As soon as he recognized Lecoq, his brow 
cleared, and he paused in his promenade. 

“Ah, well!” he inquired, “what news?” 

“I bring an order to conduct the prisoners to 
the prefecture.” 

The keeper rubbed his hands, evidently re- 
lieved. 

“Very well! very well!” he exclaimed. “The 
Black Maria will pass here in less than an hour; 
we will throw them in, and hurry the coachman 
off—” 

Lecoq was obliged to interrupt his transports 
of satisfaction. 

“Are the prisoners alone?” he inquired. 

“Entirely alone; the woman on her side of the 
hall, the man on the other. This has been a re- 
markably quiet night, a Shrove Sunday night, 
too ! It is surprising ! It is true that your hunt 
was interrupted. ” 

“You have had a drunken man here, however. ” 

“No — yes — that is a fact — this morning, just 
at daybreak. A poor devil, who is under a great 
obligation to Gevrol.” 

The involuntary irony of this remark must 
have awakened Lecoq’ s regrets. 

“Under a great obligation, indeed!” said he, 
approvingly, and with a laugh. 

“Although you seem inclined to laugh, such 


86 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


is really the case; had it not been for Gevrol the 
man would certainly have been run over.” 

“And what has become of him?” 

The keeper shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ah!” he responded. “You ask me too 
much. He was a very worthy man, who had 
been spending the night at the house of one of 
his friends, and on coming out into the air the 
wine flew to his head. He told us all about it 
when he became sober, which was in the course 
of half an hour. I have never seen a man so 
vexed. He wept, and said again and again: 
‘The father of a family, and at my age! Oh! 
it is shameful ! What shall I say to my wife? 
What will the children think?’ ” 

“Did he talk much about his wife?” 

“He talked about nothing else. He even men- 
tioned her name — Eudosia, Leocadie, or some 
name of that sort. He thought, poor man, that 
he was ruined, and that we would keep him 
there. He asked us to send for the commissioner, 
to go to his house! When we set him free, I 
thought he would go mad with joy; he kissed 
our hands, and he paid his score. Ah ! he did 
not even stop to ask for his change!” 

“And did you place him in the cage with the 
murderer?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Certainly.” 

“They have talked with each other, then?” 

“Talked! The man was so drunk, I tell you, 
that he could not have said ‘bread.’ When he 
was deposited in the cell, pouf! he fell like a log. 
As soon as he recovered we let him out. Ho, 
they did not talk to each other.” 

The young policeman had become very thought- 
ful. 

“It was, indeed, so!” he murmured. 

“What did you say?” 

“Nothing.” 

Lecoq was not inclined to communicate his re- 
flections to the keeper of the guard- house. They 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


87 


were by no means agreeable. “I was right,” he 
thought; “this pretended drunken man was none 
other than the accomplice, and. he has as much 
adroitness as he has audacity and coolness. 
While we were following his foot-prints he was 
watching us. We went away and he was bold, 
enough to enter the hovel. Then he came here 
and. compelled them to arrest him; and thanks 
to an assumption of childish simplicity, ho suc- 
ceeded in finding an opportunity to speak to the 
murderer. How perfectly he has played his 
role. But I know that he played a part, and 
that is something. •" I know that it \yill be neces- 
sary to_believe exactly the opposite of what he 
said. He talked of his family, of his wife, of 
his children — hence he has neither children, 
wife, nor family.” 

He checked himself suddenly; he had forgot- 
ten, this wa5 not the time to become absorbed in 
conjectures. 

“ What kind of a looking man was this drunk- 
ard?” he inquired. 

“He was tall and very large, had a ruddy 
complexion, white whiskers, a full face, small 
eyes, a broad, flat nose, and a good-natured, jo- 
vial manner.” 

“How old would you suppose him to be?” 

“From forty to fifty years of age.” 

“Did you form any idea of his profession?” 

“ilia foil the man with his soft cap and his 
heavy brown overcoat must be the keeper of 
some little shop, or a clerk.” 

Having obtained this sufficiently exact de- 
scription, which accorded perfectly with the re- 
sult of his investigations, Lecoq was about to 
enter the station-house when a sudden thought 
brought him instantly to a stand-still. 

“I hope, at least, that this man has had no 
communication with the Widow Chnpin?” 

The keeper laughed heartily. 

“How could he have had any?” he responded. 


88 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Is not the old woman alone in her cell? Ah, 
the old wretch ! There has not been a moment 
that she was not cursing and. threatening us. 
No, never in my whole life have I heard such 
language as she has used ! It was enough to 
make the very stones blush ; even the drunken 
man was so shocked that he went to speak to her 
through the opening in the door, and to tell her 
to be quiet.” 

The young man’s gesture was so expressive 
of impatience and wrath that the keeper paused, 
much perturbed. 

“What is the matter?” he stammered. “Why 
are you angry?” 

“Because,” replied Lecoq, furiously, “be- 
cause — ” 

And not wishing to disclose the real cause of 
his anger, he entered the station-house, saying 
that he wished to see the prisoner. 

Left alone, the keeper began to swear in his 
turn. 

“These agents of police are all alike,” he 
grumbled. “They question you, you tell them 
ail they desire to know; and afterward, if you 
venture to ask them anything, they reply: ^noth- 
ing,’ or ‘because.’ They have too much author- 
ity; it makes them proud.” 

Looking through the judas, a little latticed 
window in the door, through which the men on 
guard watch the prisoners, Lecoq eagerly exam- 
ined the appearance of the murderer. 

He was obliged to ask himself if this was really 
the same man whom he had seen some hours 
previous at the Poivriere, standing upon the 
threshold, holding the squad in check by the in- 
tense fury of his hate, by his proud forehead, his 
sparkling eyes, and his trembling lip. 

Now his whole person betrayed a pitiable 
weakness, utter despondency, gloom and despair. 

He was seated on a bench opposite the judas, 
with his elbows on his knees, and his chin rest- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


89 


ing upon his hand, his eyes fixed upon vacancy, 
his lower lip hanging. 

“No,’l murmured Lecoq, “no, this man is not 
what he seems to be.” 

He had looked at him ; he now wished to speak 
to him. He entered ; the man raised his head, 
threw an expressionless glance upon him, but did 
not say a word. 

“Well,” demanded the young officer, “how 
goes it?” • 

“I am innocent!” responded the man, in a 
hoarse, discordant voice. 

“I hope so, I am sure — but that is for the 
judge to decide. I came to see if you did not 
need something.” 

“No.” 

A second later the murderer changed his mind. 

“•If it is all the same to you, I would like a 
crust and a drink of wine.” 

“They shall bring it to you,” replied Lecoq. 

He went out immediately to forage in the 
neighborhood for eatables of some sort. He was 
impressed with the idea that in demanding a 
drink after a refusal, the man had thought only 
of carrying out his resemblance to the kind of 
man he pretended to be. 

Whoever he might be, the murderer ate with 
an excellent appetite. He then took up the large 
glass of wine, drained it slowly, and said : 

“It is good! There can be nothing to beat 
that!” 

This satisfaction disappointed Lecoq. He had 
selected, as a test, one of those horribly thick, 
bluish, nauseous mixtures which are in vogiie 
around the harrier and he expected some sign 
of dislike from the murderer. 

And there was none whatever. But he had 
not time to seek the conclusions to be drawn 
from this fact. The sound of wheels announced 
the arrival of that lugubrious vehicle, the Black 
Maria. 


90 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


It was necessary to place the Widow Chupin 
in the vehicle by main force. She fought and 
scratched and cried “Murder!” with all her 
strength. Then the assassin was requested to 
take his place in the carriage.* 

Now, at least, the young policeman counted 
upon some manifestation of repugnance, and he 
watched the prisoner closely. None! The man 
entered the frightful vehicle in the most uncon- 
cerned manner, an ‘ took possession of his com- 
partment like an c'd habitue, who knows the 
most comfortable position to assume in such close 
quarters. 

“Ah! this is an unfortunate morning,” mur- 
mured Lecoq, much disappointed; “but I will 
lie in wait for him at the prefecture.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

When the door of the prison- van had been 
securely closed, the driver cracked his whip, and 
the strong horses started off on a brisk trot. 

Lecoq had taken his seat in front, between the 
driver and the guard ; but his mind was so en- 
grossed with his own thoughts that he heard 
nothing of their conversation, which was very 
jovial, although it was frequently disturbed by 
the shrill voice of the Widow Chupin, who sang 
and yelled her imprecations alternately. 

Lecoq was trying his best to discover a method 
by which he could, surprise some clew to the se- 
cret which this murderer hid so cleverly, for he 
was still convinced that the prisoner must be- 
long to the higher ranks of society. 

That this pretender had succeeded in feigning 
an appetite, that he had concealed his distaste 
for a nauseous beverage, that he had entered the 
Black Maria without hesitation, was nothing 
extraordinary, after all, in a man who was en- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


91 


(lowed with much strength of will, when he real- 
ized the imminence of his peril, and when his 
powers of endurance were increased tenfold by 
the hope of salvation. 

But would he be able to hide his feelings as 
well when he was obliged to submit to the hu- 
miliating formalities that awaited him — formal- 
ities which, in certain cases, can, and must be, 
pushed even to the verge of insult and outrage? 

No; Lecoq could not believe that this would 
be possible. 

He was very sure that the horror that would 
be inspired in the prisoner’s mind by the dis- 
grace, and by the violation of all delicacy of 
feeling, would cause the man to revolt, to lose 
his self-control and draw from him some word 
that would give the desired clew. 

It was not until the gloomy vehicle had left 
the Pont-Neuf to take the Quai de I’Horloge that 
the young detective became conscious of what 
was passing around him. Soon the van turned 
into a gateway, and stopped in a small, damp 
court-yard . 

Lecoq was instantly on the ground. He 
opened the door of the compartment in which 
the murderer was confined, and said: 

“We are here; descend.’” 

There was no danger that the prisoner would 
escape. The iron gate had been closed, and at 
least a dozen policemen and agents were stand- 
ing near, anxious to see the harvest of the pre- 
vious night. 

When the door was opened, the murderer slow- 
ly stepped down from the vehicle. 

His expression did not change in the least. His 
face evinced the perfect indifference of a man 
accustomed to such ordeals. 

An anatomist studying the movement of a 
muscle could not have watched with a closer at- 
tention than Lecoq bestowed upon the attitude, 
the face, and ^^ne aspect of the prisoner. 


92 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


When the prisoner’s foot touched the pavement 
of the court-yard, he seemed to experience a sen- 
sation of satisfaction; he drew a long breath, 
then he stretched himseK, and shook himself vio- 
lently, as if to regain tne elasticity of his limbs, 
cramped by confinement in the narrow compart- 
ment from which he hai just emerged. 

Then he glanced about him, and a scarcely 
perceptible smile played upon his lips. 

One would, have sworn that the place was fa- 
miliar to him, that he had seen before these high, 
grim walls, these grated windows, these heavy 
doors — in short, all the sinister belongings of a 
prison. 

^^Mon Dieu!’^ thought Lecoq, greatly cha- 
grined, “does he indeed recognize the place?” 

The young man’s disquietude increased when 
he saw the prisoner, without waiting for a word, 
for a motion, for a sign, turn toward one of the 
five or six doors that opened upon the court- 
yard. 

He walked straight to the one he was expected 
to enter — straight, without an instant’s hesita- 
tion. Was it chance? 

His amazement and disappointment increased 
tenfold when he saw the man, after entering the 
gloomy corridor, walk on some little distance, 
turn to the left, pass the room of the keeper, and 
enter the register’s office. 

An old offender could not have done better. 

Lecoq found a cold sweat break out upon his 
whole body. 

“This man,” thought he, “has certainly been 
here before; he knows the ropes.” 

The register’s office was a large room, badly 
lighted by small windows, whose panes were 
covered with a thick coating of dust, and heated ! 
almost to suffocation .by an immense stove. | 

There sat the clerk reading a paper that was ji 
laid over the register — tbe gloomy register in | 
which are inscribed the names of "0,11 those whom 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


93 


misconduct, crime, misfortune, madness, or 
error have brought to these grim portals. 

Three or four watchmen who were awaiting 
the hour for entering upon their duties were half 
asleep upon the wooden benches that lined three 
sides of the room. 

These benches, two tables, and some broken 
chairs, constituted the furniture of the office. 

In one corner stood a measuring machine, 
under which each culprit was obliged to pass. 
For their exact height was recorded in order 
that the description might be complete in every 
respect. 

At the entrance of the culprit, accompanied 
by Lecoq, the clerk raised his head. 

“Ah!” said he, “has the van come?” 

“Yes,” respouded Lecoq. 

And extending the orders signed by M. d’Es- 
corval, he added: 

“Here are the papers for this man.” 

The register took the documents and read 
them. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “a triple assassination! 
oh, oh!” 

Positively he regarded the prisoner with great 
consideration. This was not a common' culprit, 
an ordinary vagabond, a vulgar thief. 

“The judge orders a private examination,” he 
continued, “and I must get him other clothing. 
The clothing he is wearing now will be used as 
evidence. Let some one go at once and tell the 
superintendent that the other occupants of the 
carriage must wait. I will measure this man’s 
height in compliance with the rules.” 

The director was not far off, and he soon made 
his appearance. The clerk had prepared his 
register. 

“Your name?” he demanded first. 

“May.” 

“Your first name?” 

“I have none.” 


94 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What, you have no Christian name?” 

The murderer seemed to reflect for a mon>ent, 
then he said, sulkily : 

“I may as well tell you that you need not wear 
yourself out questioning me. I shall reply only 
to the judge. You would like to make me cut 
my own throat, wouldn’t you? It is a very 
clever trick, but I understand it.” 

“You must see that you only aggravate your 
situation,” observed the director. 

“Not in the least. I am innocent; you wish 
to ruin me. I only defend myself. Get any- 
thing more out of me now, if you can. But you 
had better give me back the money that they 
took from me at the station-house. One hun- 
dred and thirty-six francs, eight sous! I shall 
need them when I get out of this place. I wish 
you to make a note of them on the register. 
Where are they?” 

The money had been given to Lecoq by the 
keeper of the station-house, who had found it 
upon the prisoner when he was placed in his 
custody. Lecoq deposited it upon the table. 

“Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs 
and eight sous,” said he, “and also your knife, 
your handkerchief, and four cigars.” 

An expression of lively contentment was dis- 
cernible on the prisoner’s features. 

“Now,” resumed the clerk, ‘ ‘ will y ou ans wer ? ” 

But the direcWr understood the uselessness 
of further insistence; he silenced the clerk by a 
gesture, and addressing the prisoner, he said : 

“Take off your shoes.” 

On receiving this order, Lecoq thought the 
assassin’s glance wavered. Was it only fancy? 

“Why must I do that?” he demanded. 

“To pass under the beam,” responded the 
clerk. “We must make a note of your exact 
height.” 

The prisoner made no reply; he sat down and 
drew off his heavy leather boots. The heel of 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


95 


the right one was ran over on the inside. He 
wore no stockings. 

“You do not wear shoes except on Sunday, 
then?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Why do you think that?” 

“By the mud with which your feet are cov- 
ered, as high as the .ankle- bone.” 

“And what of that?” exclaimed the man, in 
an insolent tone. “Is it a crime not to have the 
feet of a marquise?” 

“It is a crime of which you are not guilty, at 
all events,” said the young detective, slowly. 
“Do you think that I cannot see, in spite of the 
mud, that your feet are white and neat? The 
nails have been carefully cut and polished — ’ ’ 

He paused. A lightning flash of his genius 
for investigation traversed his brain. 

He pushed forward a chair, laid a paper upon 
it, and said: 

“Will you place your foot there?” 

The man did not comply with the request. 

“Ah! do not resist,” insisted the director; 
“we are in force.” 

The prisoner made no further resistance. He 
placed his foot upon the chair, as he had been 
ordered to do, and Lecoq, with the aid pf a 
knife, proceeded to remove the fragments of mud 
that adhered to the skin. 

Anywhere else, they would have laughed at 
such an act, so mysterious, strange and gro- 
tesque, all at the same time. • But in this ante- 
chamber of the court of assizes, the most trivial 
acts are tinged with a shade of gloom ; a laugh 
is easily frozen upon the lips, and one is aston- 
ished by nothing. 

All the spectators, from the director down to 
the guards, had witnessed many-other incidents 
equally absurd ; and it did not enter the mind of 
any one present to inquire the detective^s motive. 
This much they knew already : that the prisoner 
was intending to conceal his identity, that it 


96 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


was necessary to establish it, at any cost, and 
that Lecoq had probably invented some method 
of attaining this end. 

Besides, the operation was soon concluded; 
and Lecoq brushed the dust from the paper into 
the palm of his hand. 

This dust he divided into two parts. One 
portion he inclosed in a scrap of paper, and then 
slipped it into his own pocket; the other pack- 
age he handed to the director, saying, as he did 
so: 

“I must beg you, monsieur, to receive this on 
deposit, and to seal it up here, in the presence of 
the prisoner. This is necessary, that he may 
not claim by and by that in. place of this dust 
other has been substituted. ’ ’ 

•The superintendent complied with the request, 
and as he placed this “bit of proof” (as he styled 
it) in a small satchel for safe-keeping, the mur- 
derer shrugged his shoulders with a sneering 
laugh. 

It is true that beneath this cynical gayety Le- 
coq thought he could detect poignant anxiety. 

Chance owed him the compensation of this 
slight triumph ; for previous events had deceived 
all his calculations. 

The prisoner did not offer the slightest objec- 
tion when he was ordered to undress, and to ex- 
change his soiled and blood-stained garments 
for the clothing furnished by the government. 

Not a muscle of his face betrayed the secret of 
his soul, while he submitted his person to one of 
those ignominious examinations which make the 
blood mount to the forehead of the lowest crim- 
inal. 

It was with perfect indifference that he al- 
lowed the inspector to comb his hair and his | 
beard, and to examine the interior of his mouth, ! 
in order to make sure that he had net concealed | 
in one of these hiding-places a fragment of glass, ! 
by the aid of which captives can sever the | 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


97 


strongest bars; or one of those microscopic bits 
of lead that prisoners use in writing notes which 
they exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread, 
and which they call “postilions.” 

These formalities having been concluded, the 
superintendent rang for one of the guard. 

“Conduct this man to No. 3 of the secret cells,” 
he ordered. 

There was no need to drag the prisoner away. 

He went out as he had entered, preceding the 
guard, like an old habitue^ who knows where he 
is going. 

“What a rascal!” exclaimed the clerk. 

“Then you think — ” began Lecoq, baffled but 
not convinced. 

“Ah! there can be no doubt of it,” declared 
the director. “This man is certainly a danger- 
ous malefactor — an old offender — I think I have 
seen him before — I could almost swear to it.” 

So these people, who had such a- large and 
varied experience, shared Gevrol’s opinion; Le- 
coq stood alone. 

He did not discuss the matter — what good 
would it have done? Besides, they were just 
bringing in the Widow Chupin. 

The journe)^ must have calmed her nerves, for 
she had become as gentle as a iamb. It was in 
a wheedling voice, and with tearful eyes, that 
she called upon these “good gentlemen” to wit- 
ness the shameful injustice with which she was 
treated — she, an honest woman. She was the 
support of the family (since her son Polyte was 
in custody, charged with pocket- picking), and 
v/hat would become of her daughter-in-law and 
her grandson Toto, who had no one to look to 
but her? 

But when they were leading her away, after 
she had given her full name, she no sooner en- 
tered the corridor than nature reasserted itself, 
and they heard her quarreling with the guard. 

“You are wrong not to be polite,” she was 


98 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


saying to him; “you are losing a good fee, with- 
out counting many a good drink that I would 
give you without charge, when I get out of here. ” 

The examinations were ov-er, and Lecoq was 
free until the arrival of M. d’Escorval. He 
wandered through the corridors, and from room 
to room ; but, as he was questioned on every side, 
he went out and sat down upon the quay to col- 
lect his thoughts. 

His convictions were unchanged. He was 
still more convinced that the prisoner was con- 
cealing his real social condition; but, on the 
other hand, it was evident that the man was well 
acquainted with the prison and with its usages. 

He had also proved himself to be much more 
clever — a thousand times more clever — than Le- 
coq had supposed. 

What self-control! What powers of dissimu- 
lation! He had not so much as frowned while 
undergoing the severest ordeals, and he had de- 
ceived the most experienced eyes in Paris. 

The young detective had been waiting there 
nearly three hours, as motionless as the post 
upon which he was seated, and alike insensible 
to the cold and to the flight of time, when a 
coupe drew up before the entrance of the prison, 
and M. d’Escorval descended, followed by his 
clerk. 

Lecoq rose and hastened toward them, breath- 
less with anxiety. 

“My researches on the spot,” said the judge, 
“confirm me in my belief that you are right. Is 
there anything new?” 

“Yes, monsieur; a fact apparently very triv- 
ial, but of an importance that — ” 

“Very well!” interrupted the judge. “You 
will explain this to me by and by. I wish first 
to make a summar}^ examination of the accused 
parties. A mere matter of form to-day. Wait 
for me here.” 

Although the judge promised to make haste, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


99 


I^ecoq expected that at least an hour would 
elapse before he reappeared. But he was wrong. 
Twenty minutes had not passed before M. d’Es- 
cor7al emerged from the prison without his clerk. 

Ke walked very quickly, and calling to the 
young detective from some little distance, he 
said: 

“I must return home at once — instantly; I 
cannot listen to you.” 

“But, monsieur — ” 

“Enough! the bodies of the victims have been 
taken to the morgue. Keep a sharp look-out 
there. Then, this evening, make — Well — do 
whatever you think best.” 

“But, monsieur, I must — ” 

“To-morrow! — to-morrow at nine o’clock, in 
my ofiice in the Palais de Justice.” 

Lecoq wished to insist upon a hearing, but M. 
d’Escorval had entered, or rather had thrown 
himself, into his coupe, and the coachman was 
cracking his whip. 

“And he is a judge!” murmured the young 
man, left panting upon the quay. “Has he gone 
mad?” 

And an uncharitable thought entered his mind. 

“Can it be,” he murmured, “that beholds the 
key to the mystery? Does he not desire to get 
rid of me?” 

This suspicion was so terrible that he hast- 
ened back to the prison, hoping to gain some 
light from the bearing of the prisoner, and ran 
to peer through the little aperture in the heavy 
door leading into the cell. 

The murderer was lying upon the pallet that 
stood directly opposite the door. His face was 
turned toward the wall, and he was enveloped to 
the very eyes in the coverlid. 

Was he asleep? No; for Lecoq detected a 
strange movement of the body. This movement, 
which he could not explain, annoyed him. He 
applied his ear instead of his eye to the aperture, 


100 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


and he distinguished a stifled moan. 'T- ■; 
could no longer be any doubt. The death ' ' . 
was sounding in the prisoner’s throat. 

“Here! here!” cried Lecoq, greatly ex i. 
“Help! help!” 

Ten guards came running at his cell. 

“The prisoner! He is killing himself!” 

They opened the door; it was time. 

The poor wretch had torn a binding from his 
clothing, and tied it around his neck, and using 
in place of a tourniquet a tin spoon that had 
been brought in with his allowance of food, he 
was strangling himself. 

The prison doctor, who had been sent for, and 
who immediately bled the prisoner, declared that 
in ten minutes all would hav'e been over. 

When the murderer regained consciousness, he 
gazed about his cell with a wild, idiotic stare. 
One might have supposed that he was amazed to 
find himself still alive. Then a great tear welled 
from his swollen eyelids, and rolled down his 
cheek. 

They pressed him with questions — not a word 
in response. 

“Since he is in such a frame of mind, and 
since we cannot give him a companion, as he has 
been sentenced to solitary confinement, we must 
put him in a straight- jacket.” 

After he had assisted in binding the prisoner, 
Lecoq went away, very thoughtful, and pain- 
fully agitated. He felt that this veil of mystery 
hid some terrible drama. 

“But what has occurred?” he murmured. 
“Has this unfortunate man, who tried to de- 
stroy himself, confessed all to the judge? Why 
should he have committed such an act of des- 
peration?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


101 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Lecoq did not sleep any that night. 

And yet he had been on his feet for more than 
forty hours, and had scarcely paused to eat or to 
drink. 

But anxiety, hope, and even fatigue itself, 
imparted to his body the factitious strength of 
fever, and to his intellect that unhealthy acute- 
ness which is the result of intense mental effort. 

He no longer occupied himself in pursuing im- 
aginary deductions, as he had done v/hen in the 
employ of his patron, the astronomer. Facts 
were more startling than chimeras. They were 
only too real — the dead bodies of the three vic- 
tims that were lying on the marble slab of the 
morgue. 

But if the catastrophe itself was certain, be- 
yond the shadow of a doubt, everything con- 
nected with it could only be conjectured. Not a 
witness could be found to tell what circum- 
stances had preceded and paved the way for this 
terrible denoument. 

One discovery, it is true, would suffice to dis- 
sipate these doubts, and that was the identity of 
the murderer. 

Who was he? Which was right — Gevrol, up- 
held by all the men at the prison, or Lecoq, who 
stood alone? 

Gevrol’s opinion was based upon formidable 
proof, the evidence that enters the mind through 
the sense of sight. 

Lecoq’s hypothesis was based only upon a 
series of subtle observations and of deductions 
whose starting-point was a single sentence which 
had fallen from the lips of the murderer. 

And yet Leccq did not feel the least particle 
of uncertainty after his short conversation with 
M. d’Escorval’s clerk, whom he met as he was 
leaving the prison. 


102 MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

This worthy young man, when adroitly inter- 
rogated by Lecoq, was easily pei^aded to reveal 
what had passed between the prisoner and the 
judge. 

It was, one might say, nothing at all. 

The murderer, so the clerk declared, had not 
only refused to make any confession to M. d’Es- 
corval, but he had replied, in the most evasive 
manner to all the questions which had been put 
to him; and in several instances he had not re- 
plied at all. 

And if the judge had not insisted upon a reply, 
it was only because this first examination was a 
mere formality, intended to justify the rather 
premature delivery of the order to imprison the 
accused. 

Under these circumstances, how was one to 
explain this act of despair on the part of the 
prisoner? 

The statistics of prisons prove that “habitual 
offenders” (that is the expression) do not corp- 
mit suicide. 

When detected in a criminal act, some mem- 
bers of this class are seized with a wild frenzy, 
and have what are styled nervous attacks; others 
fall into a dull stupor, like a glutted beast who 
falls asleep with the blood of his victim upon his 
lips. 

But such men never think of putting an end 
to their days. They hold fast to their life, no 
matter how seriously they may be compromised. 
They are cowards. 

On the other hand, the unfortunate man who, 
in a moment of frenzy, commits some crime, 
not unfrequently seeks to avoid the consequences 
of his act by a voluntary death. 

Hence this abortive attempt on the part of the 
accused was a strong argument in favor of Le- 
coq’ s theory. 

This wretched man’s secret must be a terrible 
one, since he holds it dearer than his life, since 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


103 


he has tried to destroy himself that he might 
take it inviolate to the grave. 

Four o’clock sounded. 

Quickly Lecoq sprang from the bed, where he 
had thrown himself down without removing his 
clothing; and five minutes later he was walking 
down the Rue Montmartre. 

The weather was still disagreeable; the fog 
had not lifted. But what did it matter to the 
young detective? 

He was walking briskly on, when, just as he 
reached Saint-Eustache, some one in a coarse, 
mocking voice accosted him with: 

“Ah, ha! my fine fellow!” 

He looked up and perceived Gevrol, who, ac- 
companied by three of his men, had come to cast 
his nets near the market. It is a good place. 
The police seldom fail to find thieves and vaga- 
bonds lurking around the establishments kept 
open during the night by the hucksters. 

“You are up very early this morning. Mon- 
sieur Lecoq,” continued the inspector; “you are 
still trying to discover our man’s identity, I sup- 
pose?” 

“Still trying.” 

‘ Ts he a prince in disguise, or only a simple 
marquis?” 

“One or the other, I am quite certain.” 

“Very well. In that case ybu will not refuse 
to give us an ppportunity to drink to your suc- 
cess.” 

Lecoq consented, and the party entered a sa- 
loon near by. When the glasses were filled: 

“Upon my word. General,” exclaimed Le- 
coq, “our meeting will save me a long walk. I 
was intending to go to the prefecture to request 
you, in behalf of M. d’Escorval, to send one of 
our comrades to the morgue this morning. The 
affair at the Poivriere has been noised about, 
and all the world will be there, and he desires 


104 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


some officer to be present to watch the crowd 
and listen to the remarks of the visitors/’ 

“Very well; Father Absinthe shall be thereat 
the opening.” 

To send Father Absinthe where a shrewd and 
subtle agent was required was a mockery. Still 
Lecoq made no protest against this decision. It 
was better to be badly served than to be be- 
trayed; and he could trust Father Absinthe. 

“It does not matter much,” continued Gevrol; 
“but you should have informed me of this last 
evening. But when I reached the prefecture 
you had gone.” 

“I had business.” 

“Yes?” 

“At the station-house at the Barriere dTtalie. 
I wished to know whether the floor of the cage 
was paved or tifed.” 

After this response, he paid the score, saluted 
his superior officer, and went out. 

“Thunder!” exclaimed Gevrol, striking his 
glass violently upon the counter. “Thunder! 
how that fellow provokes me! He does not 
know the A B C’s of his profession. When he 
can discover nothing, he invents wonderful sto- 
ries and then misleads the judges with his high- 
sounding phrases, in the hope of winning promo- 
tion. I will give him advancement with a ven- 
geance! I will teach him to set himself above 
me!” 

Lecoq had not been deceived. The evening 
before, he had visited the station-house where 
the prisoner had first been confined, and had 
compared the soil of the cell floor with the dust 
he had in his pocket; and he took away with 
him, as he believed, one of those crushing proofs 
that often suffice to extort from the most obsti- 
nate criminal a complete confession. 

If he was in haste to part company with Gev- 
rol, it was because he was eager to pursue his 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 105 

investigations still further, before appearing in 
the presence of M. d’Escorval. 

He was determined to find the coachman who 
had been stopped by the two women on the Rue 
du Chevaleret; and with this object in view he 
had obtained at the prefecture the name and ad- 
dress of each person who had carriages for hire, 
between the road to Fontainebleau and the Seine. 

His first efforts at investigation were unfor- 
tunate. 

In the first establishment which he visited the 
stable-boys, who were not yet up, swore at him 
roundly. In the second, he found the grooms 
at work, but not a coachman had made his ap- 
pearance. 

Moreover, the proprietor of the establishment 
refused to show him the books upon which are 
recorded — or should be recorded — the daily en- 
gagements of each coachman. 

He was beginning to despair, when at about 
half-past seven o’clock he reached the house of a 
man named Trigault, whose establishment was 
just beyond the fortifications. Here he learned 
that on Sunday night, or rather early Monday 
morning, one of the coachmen, as he was re- 
turning home for the night, had been accosted by 
some parties, who succeeded in persuading him 
to go back to Paris. This coachman was pointed 
out to Lecoq; he was then in the court-yard har- 
nessing his horse. 

He was a little old man, with a very high 
color, and small eyes full of cunning. Lecoq 
walked up to him at once. 

“Was it you,” he demanded, “who, on Sun- 
day night, or rather on Monday, between on© 
and two o’clock in the morning, took two women 
from the Rue du Chevaleret to the city?” 

The coachman looked up, and surveying Lecoq 
attentively, cautiously replied : 

“Perhaps.” 

“It is a positive answer that I want.” 


106 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Aha!” said the old man, sneeringly, “mon- 
sieur undoubtedly knows two ladies who have 
lost something in a carriage, and so — ” 

The young detective treml3led with joy. This 
man was certainly the one whom he sought; he 
interrupted him: 

“Have you heard anything about a crime that 
has been committed in the neighborhood?” 

“Yes; a murder in a low drinking saloon.” 

“Very well! These two women were there: 
they fled when we entered the saloon. I am try- 
ing to find them. I am an agent of the safety- 
service; here is my card. Can you give me any 
information?” 

The coachman had become very pale. 

“Ah! the wretches!” he exclaimed. “lam 
no longer surprised at the pour-hoire they gave 
me. A louis, and two one-hundred sou pieces 
for the fare — thirty francs in all. Cursed money! 
if I had not spent it, I would throw it away!” 

“And where did you carry them?” 

“To the Rue de Bourgogne. I have forgotten 
the number, but I should recognize the house.” 

“Unfortunately, they would not have you 
leave them at their own door.” 

“Who knows? I saw them ring; they pulled 
the bell, and I think they entered just as I drove 
away. Shall I take you there?” 

Lecoq’s sole response was to spring upon the 
driver’s seat, exclaiming: 

“Let us be off.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

W AS one to suppose that the women who es- 
caped from the Widow Chupin’s saloon at the 
moment of the murder were utterly devoid of 
intelligence? 

No! 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


107 


Was it possible that these two fugitives, con- 
scious as they were of their perilous situation, 
would have gone to their real home in a carriage 
hired on the public highway? 

No, again. 

Then the hope of finding them manifested by 
the coachman was chimerical. 

Lecoq felt this, and 3^et he had not hesitated 
an instant before leaping upon the seat and giv- 
ing the signal to depart. 

By doing this, he obeyed a maxim which he 
had fabricated in his hours of meditation, a 
maxim which was to assure his fame in after 
days, and which read as follows: 

“In the matter of information, above all, re- 
gard with suspicion that which seems probable. 
Begin always by believing what seems incredi- 
ble.” 

While arriving at these conclusions, the young 
detective was ingratiating himself into the good 
graces of the coachman, thereby winning all the 
information that this worthy had it in his power 
to bestow. 

It was also a way that Lecoq had devised to 
get back to the heart of Paris more quickly. 

He was not deceived in this last calculation. 

The horse pricked up his ears and quickened 
his pace when his master cried: “Hi, there, Co- 
cotle!” in tones that the poor beast knew would 
admit of no trifling. 

In less than no time the carriage reached the 
Rue de Choisy, and then Lecoq resumed his in- 
quiries. 

“Well, my good man,” he began, “you have 
told me the principal facts, now I would like the 
details. How did these two women attract your 
attention?” 

“It was all very simple. I had been having a 
most unfortunate day — six hours standing in a 
line upon the boulevards, the rain pouring down 
all the time. What misery! At midnight I had 


108 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


gained only thirty sous of pour-hoire^ all told. 
Still I was so chilled through, and my horse was 
so tired, that I decided to return. I was grum- 
bling not a little, as you may suppose! After 
passing the corner of the Rue Picard, on the 
Rue du Chevaleret, I saw two women standing 
under a street lamp, some distance from me. 
Naturally, I did not pay any attention to them", 
for when a man is as old as I am, women — ” 

“Goon!” said Lecoq, who could not restrain 
his impatience. 

“I had passed them when they began to call: 
‘Coachman! coachman!’ I pretended I did not 
hear them ; but one of them ran after me, cry- 
ing; ‘A louis! a louis ior pour-boireP I delib- 
erated for a moment, when, as if to conquer my 
hesitancy, the woman added: ‘And ten francs 
for fare!’ Of course, I stopped at once.” 

Lecoq was boiling over with impatience; but 
he felt that direct and hurried questions would 
be useless. The wisest course was to listen to 
all the man had to say. 

“As you may suppose,” continued the coach- 
man, “one is not inclined to trust two such sus- 
picious characters, alone at that hour, in that 
part of the city. So when they were about to 
enter the carriage, I cried: ‘Halt, there! my lit- 
tle friends, you have promised papa some sous; 
where at f^^hey?’ The one who had called me at 
once han^ ■ me thirty francs, saying: ‘Above 
all, make haste!’ ” 

“It would be impossible to be more exact,” 
said the young man, approvingly. “Now, how 
about these two women?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean what kind of people did they seem to 
be; for what would you have taken them?” 

The man’s red face expanded under the influ- 
ence of a broad smile. 

“Well! — I took them to be nothing very good,” 
he replied. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


109 


“Ah! and how were they dressed?” 

“Like other girls who go to daaceat the Rain- 
bow, you know. But one of them was very neat 
and trig, while the other — well ! she was a terri- 
ble dowdy.” 

“Which one ran after you?” 

“The neatly dressed girl, the one who — ” 

He paused sud denly ; so vi vid was the remem- 
brance that passed through his brain, that he 
jerked the reins and brought his horse to a stand- 
still. 

“Thunder!” he exclaimed, “now I think of it, 
I did notice something strange. One of the two 
women called the other madame, as large as life, 
while the other said thee and thou, and spoke 
rather harshly to her companion.” 

“Oh! oh! oh!” exclaimed the young detec- 
tive, in three different keys. “And which, if you 
please, said ‘thou?’ ” 

“The shabbily dressed one. She couldn’t put 
two feet in one shoe, that woman couldn’t. She 
shook the other, the trig-looking girl, as it she 
were a plum-tree. ‘Wretch!’ said she, ‘do you 
wish to ruin us. You can faint when we get 
1 ' ou wish; come along!’ And the other 

' ' .ebbing: ‘Indeed, madame, indeed, I 

She really did seem unable to move; in 
, seemed so ill that I said to myself: 
t ' a young woman who has dra^'!^^' more 
. efficiency!’ ” 

facts confirmed while they corrected 
first supposition. 

■ had suspected, the social position of the 
.nen was not the same, 
lad been mistaken, however, in attribut- 
pre-eminence to the woman wearing the 
' shoes with the high heels, whose impres- 
upon the snow had revealed her weak- 

3 pre-eminence belonged to her who had 
le prints of the large, broad shoes; and 


110 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


superior in her rank, she had been so in her 

energy. 

Until now Lecoq had been satisfied that she 
was the servant and the other the mistress. 

“Is this all, my good fellow?” he asked his 
companion. 

“All,” replied the coachman, “except I no- 
ticed that the shabbily-dressed woman who paid 
me had a hand — well, as small as an infant’s; 
and in spite of her anger, her voice was as sweet 
as music.” 

“Did you see her face?” 

“I just caught a glimpse of it.” 

“Could you tell if she were pretty, or whether 
she was a blonde or a brunette?” 

So many questions at a time confused the 
worthy coachman. 

“Stop a minute!” he replied. “In my opinion 
she was not pretty, and I do not believe she was 
young; but she certainly was a blonde, with 
plenty of hair.” 

“Was she tall, or short; stout, or slender?” 

“Between the two.” 

This was very vague. 

“And the other,” demanded Lecoq, “the 
neatly-dressed one?” 

“The devil! As for her, I did not notice her 
at all ; she was very small, that is all I know 
about her.” 

“Would you recognize her if you should meet 
her again?” 

“Thunder! no.” 

The carriage had traversed about half of the 
Rue de Bourgogne; the coachman stopped his 
horse and said : 

“Attention ! That is the house which the two 
women entered.” 

To draw off the silk handkerchief that served 
him as a muffler, to fold it and slip it into his 
pocket, to spring to the ground, and enter the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Ill 


house indicated, was the work of an instant only 
for the young detective. 

In the concierge’s little room an old woman 
was seated, knitting. 

“Madame,” said Lecoq, politely, presenting 
her with the silk handkerchief, “I came here to 
return this article to one of your lodgers.” 

“To which one?” 

“Really, that is something I do not know.” 

The worthy concierge for a moment supposed 
that this extremely polite young man was mock- 
ing her. 

“Villainous wretch — !” she began. 

“Pardon,” interrupted Lecoq; “allow me to 
finish. This is my explanation : Night before 
last, or rather day before yesterday morning, 
about three o’clock, I was quietly , returning 
home, when, not far from here, two ladies who 
seemed to be in a great hurry passed me. One 
of them dropped this — I picked it up, and of 
course hastened after them to return it. But 
my labor was lost; they had already entered 
here. At such an hour I did not like to ring, 
for fear of disturbing you. Yesterday I was 
very busy, but to-day I came to return the arti- 
cle; here it is.” 

He laid the handkerchief upon the table, and 
pretended that he was about to go, but the con- 
cierge detained him. 

“Many thanks for your k'^.ldness,” said she, 
“but you can keep it. Here, in this house, we 
have no ladies who return home alone after 
midnight.” 

“Still I have eyes,” insisted Lecoq, “and I 
certainly saw — ” 

“Ah! I had forgotten,” exclaimed the old 
woman. “The night you speak of some one did 
ring the bell here. I opened my door and listened 
— I heard nothing. Not hearing any one close 
the door or come upstairs, I said to myself: ‘It 
is some mischievous boy playing a trick on me.’ 


112 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


I slipped on my dress and went out into the ves- 
tibule. What did I see? Two shadowy forms 
running away; as they ran they slammed the 
outer door in my face. I opened it again as 
quickly as I could, and looked out into the street. 
What did I see then? Two women hurrying 
away as fast as they could. 

“In what direction?” 

“They were running toward the Eue de Var- 
ennes.” 

Lecoq was baffled again : he bowed civilly to 
the concierge, whom he might have need of 
again, and went back to the carriage. 

“As I had supposed, they do not live here,” he 
remarked to the coachman. 

That worthy man shrugged his shoulders in 
evident vexation; and his wrath was about to 
find vent in a torrent of words, when Lecoq, who 
had consulted his watch, checked it by saying : 

“Nine o’clock! — I shall be an hour behind 
time, but I shall have some news to tell. Take 
me to the morgue as quickly as possible.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

The days that follow mysterious crimes and 
catastrophes, whose victims have not been recog- 
nized, are great d^ys at the morgue. 

The employes hasten about exchanging jests 
that make one’s flesh creep. Almost all of them 
are very gay. Perhaps it is from an imperious 
need to arm themselves against the horrible 
gloom that surrounds them. 

“We shall have the world and his wife here 
to-day,” they say. 

And, in fact, as soon as Lecoq and his coach- 
man reached the quay, they could see in the dis- 
tance the dense and excited crowd which had 
gathered around that chamber of horrors. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


113 


lie newspapers had reported the affair that 
u-d taken place in the Widow Chupin’s saloon, 
and everybody wished to see the victims. 

Upon the bridge Lecoq made the driver stop 
his horse, and leaped to the ground. 

“I do not wish to get out of the carriage be- 
fore the morgue,” he said to the coachman. 

Then drawing out, first his watch, and then 
his purse, he said : 

“We have spent one hour and forty minutes, 
my good fellow; consequently I owe you — ” 

“Nothing at all,” replied the coachman, de- 
cidedly. 

“But—” 

“No — not Si-sou. I am too much provoked to 
think that I took the money of those abominable 
jades ! I wish what I bought to drink with their 
money had given me the colic. So pray feel no 
uneasiness about the score. If you need a car- 
riage, take mine for nothing, until you have 
caught the wretches.” 

Lecoq at that time was by no means rich, and 
he did not insist. 

“You will at least taka my name and my ad- 
dress?” continued the coachman. 

“Certainly. The judge will wish to hear your 
deposition. You will receive a summons.” 

“Very well. Address Papillon (Eugene), 
coachman, at the house of M. Trigault. I lodge 
there, because I have some small interest in the 
business, you see.” 

The young policeman was hastening away, 
when Papillon called him back. 

“When you leave the morgue you will want 
to go somewhere — you told me that you had an 
appointment, and that you were late now.” 

“Yes, I ought to be at the Palais de Justice; 
but it is only a few steps from here.” 

“No matter. I am going to wait for you at 
the corner. Ah! it is useless to say ‘no;’ I have 
made up my mind, and I am a Breton. I have 


114 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


a favor to ask of you. Ride out that thirty 
francs that those jades paid me.’’ 

It would have been cruel to refuse such a re- 
quest. Lecoq made a motion of assent, and hur- 
ried away toward the morgue. 

If there was a crowd outside, it was because 
the gloomy place was full, literally packed in- 
side. 

Lecoq, to effect an entrance, was obliged to 
use his elbows vigorously. 

Within, the sight was horrible; and it was 
terrible to think what disgusting sensations and 
emotions that ferocious tlirong had come to seek 
there. 

There were women in great numbers, and 
crowds of young maidens. 

The shop girls and the workmen who reside in 
the neighborhood made a detour^ in order to 
come and look upon the harvest of dead bodies 
which crime, carriage accidents, the Seine, and 
the canal St. Martin gather each day for the 
morgue. The most sensitive come no further 
+han the door; the more intrepid enter and relate 
t’.eir impressions to their less courageous com- 
panions on emerging from the horrible place. 

When there is no body there; when the marble 
slabs are unoccupied, the visitors are not pleased 
— hard as ifc may be to believe it. 

But there was a full house that morning. All 
the slabs, with the exception of two, were occu- 
pied. 

The atmosphere was terrible. A damp chill 
penetrated one’s body, and from the panting 
crowd rose an infectious steam, heavily impreg- 
nated with the odor of the chloride of lime used 
as a disinfectant. 

And with the whispers of the bystanders, 
which wer«® interspersed with sighs and exclama- 
tions, was mingled, as a continuous accompani- 
ment, the murmur of the water trickling from 
the spigot at the head of each slab ; a tiny stream 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 115 

that flowed forth only to fall in fine spray upon 
the marble. 

Through the small arched windows a gray 
light stole in on the exposed bodies, making 
each muscle stand out clearly, bringing into bold 
relief the ghastly tints of the lifeless flesh, and 
imparting a sinister aspect to the tattered cloth- 
ing suspended about the room to aid in identifi- 
cation. The clothing, after a certain time; is 
sold — for nothing is wasted. 

But Lecoq was too much occupied with his 
own thoughts to remark the horrors of the scene. 

He scarcely bestowed a glance upon the three 
victims. He was seeking Father Absinthe, and 
did not see him anywhere. 

Had Gevrol intentionally or unintentionally 
failed to fulfill his promise, or had Father Ab- 
sinthe forgotten his duty in his morning dram? 

Powerless to decide what the cause of his com- 
rade’s absence might be, Lecoq addressed the 
head-keeper : 

“It would seem that no one has yet recognized 
either of the unfortunate victims of the tripj^ 
murder at the Widow Chupin’s.” 

“No one. And yet, from the opening, we have 
had an immense crowd. If I were master here, 
on such days as this I would ask an admission 
fee of two sous, and charge half-price for chil- 
dren. It would bring in a round sum— would 
more than cover the expenses.” 

The idea thus presented offered an inducement 
to conversation, but Lecoq did not seize it. 

“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “Did they not 
send one of the agents of the secret service here 
this morning?” 

“Yes, there was one here.” 

“Has he gone away, then? I do not see him 
anywhere.” 

The keeper, before making any response, 
glanced suspiciously at the eager questioner, and 


116 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


at last, with some hesitancy of manner, he in- 
quired : 

“Are you one of them?” 

This phrase came into circulation at the epoch 
when so many secret agents, whose business it 
was to excite revolt, flourished. .Under the 
Kestoration, this term was applied only to the 
police. 

“He is one of them,” or “he is not one of 
them.” The expression has survived the cir- 
cumstances that gave it birth. 

“I am one of them,” replied Lecoq, exhibiting 
his badge in support of his assertion. 

“And your name?” 

“Is Lecoq.” 

The face of the keeper was suddenly illumined 
by a smile. 

“In that case,” said he, “I have a letter for 
you, written by your comrade, who was obliged 
to go away. Here it is.” 

The detective at once broke the seal and read ; 

“Monsieur Lecoq — ” 

“Monsieur!” this simple formula of politeness 
brought a faint smile to the lips of the reader. 
Was it not, on the part of Father Absinthe, an 
evident recognition of his colleague’s superiority? 
The young man saw in it an unquestioning de- 
votion which it would be his duty to repay with 
the kind protection of the master for his first 
disciple. 

He continued the perusal of his letter. 

“Monsieur Lecoq— I had been standing on 
duty since the opening of the morgue, when, 
about nine o’clock, three young men entered, 
arm-in-arm. From their manner and appear- 
ance I judged them to be clerks in some store or 
warehouse. Suddenly I noticed that one of them 
had turned as white as his shirt; and calling the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 117 

attention of his companions to one of the un- 
known victims, he said: ‘Gustave!’ 

“His comrades put their hands over his lips, 
and one of them said : ‘What are you about, you 
fool, to mix yourself up with this affair! Do you 
wish to get us into trouble?’ 

“Thereupon they went out, and I followed 
them. 

“But the person who had spoken was so over- 
come that he could scarcely drag himself along; 
and his companions were obliged to take him 
into a little restaurant. 

“I entered it myself, and it is there where I 
am writing this letter, while I watch them out 
of the corner of my eye. The head-keeper will 
give you this note explaining my absence. You 
will understand that I am going to follow these 
men. A. B. S.” 

The hand writing of this letter was almost illeg- 
ible; there were faults of orthography in each 
line; but its meaning was clear and exact, and 
could not fail to awaken the most flattering 
hopes. 

Lecoq’s face was radiant when he returned to 
the carriage, and, as he urged on his horse, the 
old coachman could not refrain from saying: 

‘‘Things are going on to suit you.” 

A friendly “chut!” was the only response. It 
required all his attention to classify this new in- 
formation. 

When he descended from the carriage before 
the gate of the Palais de Justice, he experienced 
considerable difficulty in dismissing the old 
coachman, who insisted upon remaining at his 
orders. He succeeded at last, but even when he 
had reached the portico of the left entrance, the 
worthy driver, standing upon his carriage- box, 
shouted : 

“At the house of M; Trigault — do not forget 
— Father Papillon — No. 998 — 1,000 less 2 — ” 


118 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


When he reached the third story of the left 
wing of the palace, and was about entering that 
long, narrow, and somber corridor known as the 
galerie de V instruction, Lecoq addressed a 
door-keeper installed behind a heavy oaken desk. 

“M. d’Escorval is undoubtedly in his office,” 
he remarked. 

The man shook his head. 

“M. d’Escorval,” he replied, “is not here this 
morning, and he will not be here for several 
weeks. ’ ’ 

“Why so? What do you mean?” 

“Last evening, as he was alighting from his 
carriage at his own door, he had a most unfortu- 
nate fall, and broke his leg.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

One is rich — one has a carriage, horses, and 
coachman — and when one passes, leaning back 
upon the cushions, one receives many an envious 
glance. 

But sometimes the coachman has taken a drop 
A-oo much, and upsets the carriage; perhaps the 
horses run away and break everything, or the 
until then fortunate owner, in a moment of ab- 
straction, misses the step, and fractures his limb 
• upon the sharp curbstone. 

Such accidents are occurring every day; and 
the long list ought to make humble foot-passen- 
gers bless their lowly lot which preserves them 
from s^ch perils. 

On learning the misfortune that had befallen 
M. d’Escorval, Lecoq’s face wore such an ex- 
pression of consternation that the door-keeper 
could not help laughing. 

“What is there so very extraordina'ry about 
it?” he demanded. 

“I — oh! nothing — ” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


119 


The detective did not speak the truth. The 
fact is, he had just been struck by the strange 
coincidence of these two events, viz. : the mur- 
derer’s attempted suicide and the fall of the 
judge. 

But he did not allow the vague prdSentiment 
that flitted through his mind tinie to assume 
form. 

What connection could there be between the 
two facts? 

Besides, he never allowed himself to be gov- 
erned by prejudice, nor had he as yet enriched 
his formulary by the axiom which he afterward 
professed : 

“Regard with distrust all circumstances which 
seem to favor our secret desires.” 

It is certai n that Lecoq was far from being re- 
joiced at M. d’Escorval’s accident, and that he 
would gladly have given a great deal if the mis- 
fortune could have been prevented. But he could 
not help saying to himself that he would, by 
this stroke of misfortune, be freed from all fur- 
ther disagreeable connection with a man whose 
superciliousness and disdain had, as it were, 
crushed him. 

This thought caused a sensation of relief, al- \ 
most of lightheartedness. 

“In that case,” he remarked to the door-keep- 
er, “I shall have nothing to do here this morn- 
ing.” 

“You must be joking. Does the world stop 
moving because one man is disabled? It is only 
an hour since the news came; but all the urgent 
business that M. d’Escorval had in charge has 
already been divided among the other judges.” 

“I came here about that terrible affair that oc- 
curred night before last.” 

“Eh! Why did. you not say so? They are 
waiting for you, and a messenger has been sent 
to the prefecture for you already. M. Segmuller 
has charge of the case.” 


120 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Deep lines of doubt and perplexity appeared 
on Lecoq’s forehead. He tried to remember the 
judge that bore this name, and wondered whether 
he should find himself en rapport with him. 

“Yes,” resumed the door-keeper, who seemed 
to be in a talkative mood, “M. Segmuller — you 
do not seem to know him. He is a worthy man, 
not so grim in manner as most of our gentlemen. 
It was of him that a prisoner said one day, after 
his examination was over: ‘That devil there has 
pumped me so well that I shall certainly have 
my head chopped off; but, nevertheless, he is a 
good fellow!’ ” 

It was with a heart somewhat lightened by 
these favorable reports that Lecoq went and 
tapped at the door that had been indicated, and 
which bore the number 22. 

“Come in!” called a pleasant voice. 

Lecoq entered, and found himself face to face 
with a man about forty years of age, tall and 
rather corpulent, who said, at once: 

“Ah! you are Agent Lecoq. Very well — take 
a seat. I am busy just now with the case, but I 
will attend to you in five minutes.” 

Lecoq obeyed, and furtively began a study of 
the man whose co-laborer he was to become. 

His exterior corresponded perfectly with the 
description given by the door-keeper. Frankness 
and benevolence beamed on his plump face, 
which was lighted by very pleasant blue eyes. 

Still, the young detective fancied that it would 
not be safe to trust too implicitly to these benign 
appearances. 

And he was quite right. 

Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller was 
blessed with that candid physiognomy that be- 
longs to almost all the children of blonde Alsace 
—a deceitful mask, which not infrequently con- 
ceals Gascon cunning, rendered still more dan- 
gerous by a union with extreme caution. 

M. Segmuller’s mind was wonderfully pene- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


121 


trating and alert; but his system — every judge 
has his own — was good-humor. While some of 
his colleagues were as stiff and cutting in man- 
ner as the sword which the statue of Justice 
holds in her hand, he assumed a simplicity and 
a kindness of demeanor, which never affected 
his firmness of character as a magistrate, how- 
ever. 

But his voice had such a paternal intonation, 
he veiled the subtle meaning of his questions and 
the hearing of the answers with such an affecta- 
tion of frankness, that the man whom he ques- 
tioned forgot the necessity pf protecting himself, 
and revealed all. And while the culprit was 
congratulating himself upon getting the best of 
the judge, the poor wretch was being turned in- 
side out like a glove. 

Beside such a man, a grave and slender clerk 
would have excited distrust ; so he had chosep. 
one who was a caricature of himself. His name 
was Goquet. He was short, very corpulent, 
beardless, and smiling. His broad face was ex- 
pressive of silliness rather than good humor, and 
he was not particularly bright. 

As M. Segmuller had said, he was studying 
the case which had so unexpectedly fallen into 
his hands. 

All the articles which Lecoq had collected, 
from the flakes of wool to the diamond ear- 
ring^ were spread out upon the magistrate’s desk. 

He read and re-read the report which had been 
written by Lecoq, and according to the different 
phases of the affair he examined the objects be- 
fore him, or consulted the plan of the ground. 

Not at the end of five minutes, but at the close 
of a good half-hour, he threw himself back in 
his armchair. 

“Monsieur Lecoq,” he said, slowly, “Mon- 
sieur d’Escorval has informed me by a note on 
the margin of this file of papers that you are an 
intelligent man, and that we can trust you.” 


122 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“My will, at least, is good.” 

“You speak too slightingly of yourself; this is 
the first time that an agent has brought me a 
report as complete as yours. You are young; if 
you will persevere, I think you will be able to 
accomplish great things in your profession.” 

The young man bowed, pale with delight, and 
stammered his thanks. 

“Your opinion in this matter coincides with 
mine,” continued M. Segmuller. “The govern- 
ment attorney informs me that M. d’Escorval 
shares this opinion. An enigma is before us; 
and it ought to be solved. 

“Oh!-^we shall solve it, shall we not, mon- 
sieur?” exclaimed Lecoq.” 

He indeed felt capable of extraordinary things ; 
he was ready to go through fire and water for 
the judge who had received him so kindly. Such 
intense enthusiasm sparkled in his eyes that M. 
Segmuller could not restrain a smile. 

“I have strong hopes of it myself,” he re- 
sponded; “but we are far from the end. Now, 
what have you been doing since yesterda}^? Did 
M. d’Escorval give you any orders? Have you 
obtained any new information? 

“I think, monsieur, that I have not wasted 
any time.” 

And immediately, with rare precision, and 
with that happiness of expression which seldom 
fails the man who is thoroughly en rapport with 
his subject, Lecoq related all that he had discov- 
ered since his departure from the Poivriere. 

He recounted the daring acts committed by 
the man whom he believed an accomplice, the 
points he had noted in the murderer’s conduct, 
and the latter’s unsuccessful attempt at self-de- 
struction. He repeated the testimony given by 
the coachman, and by the concierge ; he read the 
letter he had received from Father Absinthe. 

In conclusion, he placed upon the judge’s desk 
some of the earth he had procured in such a 


MONSIEUR 1.ECOQ. 


123 


strange manner, and deposited beside it about 
the same quantity of dust that he had brought 
from the floor of the cell in which the murderer 
had been conflned at the Barriere d’ltalie. 

Then, when he had explained the reasons 
which had influenced him, and the conclusions 
that might be drawn from the discovery he had 
made: 

“Ah! you are right!” exclaimed M. Segmul- 
ler, “it may be that you have discovered a 
means to confound all the denials of the prisoner. 
It certainly is an evidence of surprising sagacity 
on your part.” 

It must have been, for Goquet, the c\erk, nod- 
ded approvingly. 

“Wonderful!” he murmured. “I should never 
have thought of that.” 

While he was talking, M. Segmuller had care- 
fully placed all the articles of conviction in a 
large drawer, from which they would not emerge 
until the trial. 

“Kow,” said he, “I understand the case well 
enough to examine the Widow Chupin. We may 
gain some information from her.” 

He laid his hand upon the bell ; Lecoq made 
an almost supplicating gesture. 

“I have one great favor to ask, monsieur.” 

“What is it? — speak.” 

“I should deem it a great favor if you would 
permit me to be present at this examination. It 
takes so little, sometimes, to awaken a happy 
inspiration.” 

The law says that the accused shall first be 
privately examined by the judge, assisted by his 
clerk; but it also allows the presence of agents 
of the police force. 

“Very well,” responded M. Segmuller; “re- 
main.” 

He rang the bell; a messenger appeared. 

“Has the Widow Chupin been brought here, 
in compliance with my orders?” 


124 MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

“Yes, monsieur; she is here in the gallery.’’ 

“Let her come in.” 

An instant after, the woman entered, bowing 
to the right and to the left. 

This was not her first appeaj’ance before a 
magistrate, and she was not ignorant of the re- 
spect that is due to justice. 

So she had arrayed herself for her examina- 
tion with the utmost care. 

She had arranged her rebellious gray hair in 
smooth bandeaux, and she had done the best pos- 
sible with the plain clothing she wore. She had 
even persuaded the keeper of the prison to pur- 
chase for her, with the money she had upon her 
person at the time of her arrest, a black crepe 
bonnet and two white pocket-handkerchiefs, 
which she intended to deluge with her tears at 
pathetic moments. 

To second these artifices of the toilet, she had 
drawn upon her repertoire of grimaces for an 
innocent, sad, and yet resigned air, well-fitted, 
in her opinion, at least, to win the sympathy and 
indulgence of the magistrate upon whom her 
fate was to depend. 

Thus disguised, with downcast eyes and hon- 
eyed voice, she looked so unlike the terrible ter- 
magant of the Poivriere that her customers 
would scarcely have recognized her. 

An honest old bachelor would have been more 
than likely to offer her twenty francs a month to 
take charge of his house. 

But M. Segmuller had unmasked so many hyp- 
ocrites that he was not deceived for a moment; 
and the thought that entered his mind was the 
same that sparkled in the eyes of Lecoq: 

“What an oldi. comedienner^ 

His penetration, it is true, may have been con- 
siderably aided by some notes he had just pe- 
rused. These notes were simpl}^ an abstract of 
the woman’s former life, which had been fur- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 125 

nished by the chief of police, at the request of 
the judge. 

M. Segmuller, by a gesture, warned his smil- 
ing clerk, to be ready to write. 

“Your name?” he demanded, bruskly. 

“Aspassie Clapard, my good sir,” replied the 
old woman; “the Widow Chupin, at your ser- 
vice, sir.” 

She executed a profound courtesy, and added: 

“A lawful widow, you understand, sir; I 
have my marriage papers safe in my chest at 
home; and if you wish to send any one — ” 

“Your age?” interrupted the judge. 

“Fifty-four.” 

“Your profession?” 

“Dealer in liquors, in Paris, near the Rue du 
Chateau-des- Rentiers, a few steps from the for- 
tifications.” 

These questions as to individuality are always 
the first which are addressed to a prisoner. 

They give bol_t the judge and the accused time 
to study each other, to try each other’s strength, 
§,s it were, before engaging in a serious strug- 
gle; as two adversaries about to engage in mor- 
tal combat first try a few passes with foils. 

“Now,” resumed the judge, “we will note 
your antecedents. Have you not already been 
found guilty of several offenses?” 

The old sinner was too well- versed in criminal 
procedure to be ignorant of those famous records, 
which render the denial of identity such a diffi- 
cult matter in France. 

“I have been unfortunate, my good judge,” 
whined the old woman. 

“Yes, a number of times. First, you were 
arrested on the charge of being a receiver of 
stolen goods.” 

“But it was proved that I was innocent, that 
my character was whiter than snow. My poor, 
dear husband had been deceived by his com- 
rades; that was all.” 


126 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Possibly. But while your husband was sub- 
mitting to his sentence, you were sentenced to 
imprisonment, first for one month, and after- 
ward for a term of three months, for stealing.” 

“I had enemies who did their best to ruin me.” 

“Again you were imprisoned for having led 
some young girls astray.” 

“They were good-for-nothing hussies, my dear 
sir, heartless and unprincipled creatures. I did 
them many favors, and then they went and related 
a batch of falsehoods to ruin me. I have al ways 
been too kind and considerate toward others.” 

The list of the woman’s offenses was not ex- 
hausted, but M., Segmuller thought it useless to 
continue. 

“Such is your past,” he resumed. “At the 
present time your saloon is the resort T5f crimi- 
nals and malefactors. Your son is serving out 
his fourth term of imprisonment; and it has 
been clearly proved that you ^jhetted him and 
assisted him in his evil deeds. ^ T our daughter- 
in-law, by some miracle, has remained honest 
and industrious, so you have tormented and 
abused her to such an extent that the authorities 
have been obliged to interfere. When she left 
your house you tried to keep her child — in order 
to rear it like its father, undoubtedly. 

“This,” thought the old woman, “is the mo- 
ment to soften the judge’s heart. 

She drew her new handkerchief from her pock- 
et, and endeavored, by rubbing her eyes ener- 
getically, to extract a tear. One might have 
drawn tears from a piece of parchment just as 
easily. 

“Oh, unhappy me!” she groaned ; “to suspect, 
to think that I would harm my grandson, my 
poor little Toto! I should be worse than the 
wild heasts, to wish to draw my own flesh and 
blood down to perdition!” 

But these lamentations did not seem to have 
much effect on the judge. She saw this, and, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 127 

suddenly changing her mode of attack and her 
tone, she began her justification. 

She did not positively deny her past; but she 
threw all the blame on destiny, which is not 
just, which favors some, but not usually the best, 
people, and which shows no mercy to others. 

Alas! she was one of those who have had no 
chance in life, having always been innocent and 
persecuted. In this last affair, for example, how 
was she to blame? A triple murder had stained 
her saloon with blood ; but the most respectable 
establishments are not exempt from similar ca- 
tastrophes. 

She had had time for reflection in her solitary 
confinement, she had searched the deepest re- 
cesses of her conscience, and she was still un- 
able to discover what blame could justly be laid 
at her door. 

“I can tell you,” interrupted the judge. “You 
are accused of i .peding the action of the law. ’ ’ 

'"’‘Mon Dieu! is it possible?” 

“And of seeking to defeat justice. This is 
equivalent to complicity. Widow Chupin; take 
care. When the police entered the cabin, after 
this crime, had been committed, you refused to 
answer their questions.” 

“I told them all that I knew.” 

“Very well; you -must repeat it to me.” 

M. Segmuller had reason to be content. He 
had conducfed the examination in such a way 
that the Widow Chupin had been naturally led 
to undertake the relation of the facts herself. 

This was an excellent point gained. Direct 
questions would, perhaps, have put this shrewd 
old woman, who retained all her sang froid, 
upon her guard; and it was necessary that she - 
should not suspect what the judge knew, or what 
he was ignorant of, in relation to the affair. 

So, by leaving her to her own devices, he 
might be able to discover, in its entirety, the 


128 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


version which she proposed to substitute for 
the truth. 

This version, neither the judge nor Lecoq 
doubted, had been concerted at the station-house 
of the Place dTtalie between the murderer and 
the pretended drunkard, and afterward trans- 
mitted to the widow by the bold accomplice. 

“Oh! the affair was very simple, my good 
sir,” began the honest tavern-keeper. “Sun- 
day evening I was sitting alone by the fire in my 
establishment, when suddenly the door opened, 
and I saw three men and two ladies enter.” 

M. Segmuller and the detective exchanged a 
rapid glance. The accomplice, then, had seen 
Lecoq and his companion examining the foot- 
prints, and did not intend to deny the presence 
of the two women. 

“What time was this?” demanded the judge. 

“About eleven o’clock.” 

“Go on.” 

“As' soon as they sat down, they ordered a 
bowl of wine, a la Frangaise. Without boast- 
ing, I may say that I have not an equal in pre- 
paring this beverage. Of course, I waited upon 
them, and afterward, having a blouse to mend 
for my boy, I went up to my room, which is on 
the floor above.” 

“Leaving these people alone?” 

“Yes, my judge.” 

“That showed a great deal of confidence on 
your part.” 

The widow sadly shook her head. “When one 
has nothing,” she sighed, “one has no fear of 
thieves.” 

“Go on — go on.” 

“Well, I had been up there about half an hour, 
when I heard some one below call out: ‘Eh, old 
woman!’ I went down, and found a large heav- 
ily-bearded’ man, who had just come in. He 
wished a glass of brandy. I waited upon him; 
he was seated alone at a table.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 129 

“"And then you went back upstairs again?’’ 
interrupted the judge. 

Did the Widow Chupin comprehend the con- 
cealed irony? Her physiognomy did not allow 
you to divine whether such was the case or not. 

“Precisely, my good sir,” she replied. “Only 
this time I had scarcely taken up my needle be- 
fore I heard a terrible uproar in the saloon. I 
hurried downstairs to put a stop to it — ah well ! 
yes ! The three first comers had fallen upon the 
newcomer, and they were beating him, my good 
sir, they were killing him. I screamed. Just 
then the man who had come in alone drew a 
pistol from his pocket ; he fired and killed one of 
his assailants, who fell to the ground. I was so 
frightened that I crouched on the staircase and 
put my apron over my head that I might not see 
the blood run. An instant later Monsieur Gevrol 
arrived with his men; they forced open the door, 
and behold — ” 

These wretched old women, who have traf- 
ficked in every sort of vice, and who have tasted 
every disgrace, sometimes attain a perfection of 
hypocrisy which deceives the most subtle pene- 
tration. 

* A man who had not been warned beforehand 
would certainly have been impressed by the ap- 
parent candor of the Widow Chupin, so naturally 
was it put on, so perfect was the affectation of 
frankness, surprise, and fear which she dis- 
played. 

Unfortunately, her eyes were against her— 
her small gray eyes, which were as restless as 
those of a caged animal, and which gleamed 
with cunning. 

Meanwhile, she was mentally rejoicing at the 
success of her narrative, being convinced that 
the judge placed implicit confidence in her reve- 
lation. 

In fact, not a single muscle of M. Segmuller’s 
face had betrayed his impressions during the old 


130 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


woman’s recital — a recital which, by the way,* 
had been uttered with prestidigitator-like volu- 
bility. 

When she paused, out of breath, he rose and 
without a word approached his clerk to look over 
the notes which Goquet had taken of this first 
part of the examination. 

From the corner where he was quietly seated, 
Lecoq did not cease his watch over the prisoner. 

“She thinks,” he was saying to himself, “that 
it is ail over; and that her deposition is accepted 
without question.” 

If such were, indeed, the widow’s opinion, she 
’was soon to be undeceived. 

M. Segmuller, after a few low spoken words 
to the smiling Goquet, took a seat near the fire- 
place, convinced that the moment had come for 
pushing the examination more strongly. 

“So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you affirm 
that you did not remain for a single moment 
with the people who came to your saloon for re- 
freshments?” 

“ Hot a moment.” 

“They entered and gave their order, you 
waited on them, and you left them at once?” 

“Yes, my good sir.” 

“It seems to me impossible that you should not 
have caught some words of their conversation. 
What were they talking about?” 

“I am not in the habit of watching and play- 
ing the spy over my customers.” 

“Did you not hear something?” 

“Nothing.” 

The judge shrugged his shoulders with an air 
of commiseration. 

“In other words,” he remarked, “you refuse 
to inform the justice—’'' 

“Oh, my good sir!” 

“Allow me to finish. All these improbable 
stories about leaving the room, and mending 
yOur son’s clothes in your chamber, you have 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


■>31 


invented, so that yon could say to me: ‘I ha^e 
seen nothing;- I have heard nothing; I know 
nothing.’ If such is the system of defense you 
have adopted, I warn you that it will be impossi- 
ble for you to sustain it, and that it will not be 
admitted by any tribunal.” 

“It is not a system of defense; it is the truth.” 

M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a moment; 
then, suddenly, he said: 

“Then you have nothing to tell me about this 
miserable assassin?” 

“But he is not an assassin, my good sir.” 

“What do you mean by such an assertion?” 

“I mean that he has only killed others in pro- 
tecting himself. They sought a quarrel with 
him, he stood alone against three- men; he saw 
very plainly that he could expect no mercy from 
brigands who — ” 

She suddenly checked herself, greatly embar- 
rassed, as if reproaching herself for having gone 
too far; for having given too much liberty to her 
tongue. 

She might reasonably hope, it is true, that the 
judge had not observed her indiscretion. 

A brand had fallen from the fire down upon 
the hearth; he had taken the tongs, and his at- 
tention seemed to be engrossed in the task of 
artistically arranging his fire. 

“Who can tell me — who can assure me that it 
was not this man, on the contrary, who first at- 
tacked the others?” he murmured, thoughtfully. 

“I can,” declared the widow, stoutly; “I can 
swear it.” 

^ M. Segmuller looked up, intense astonishment 
written upon every feature. ^ * 

“How can you know that?” he said slowly. 
“How can you swear it? You were in your 
chamber when your quarrel began.” 

Silent and motionless in his chair, Lecoq was 
inwardly jubilant. He thought that this was a 
most happy result, and that but a few questions 


132 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


more would be required to make the old woman 
contradict herself. He also assured himself that 
the proofs of her complicity were increasing. 
Without a secret interest, the widow would never 
have undertaken the defense of the prisoner so 
imprudently. 

“But you have probably been led to this con- 
clusion by your knowledge of the character of 
the murderer, with whom you are apparently 
well acquainted,” remarked the judge. 

“I never laid eyes upon him untill that even- 
ing.” 

“But he must have been in your establish- 
ment before?” 

“Never in, his life.” 

“Oh, oh! Then can you explain how it was 
that, on entering the bar-room, while you were 
sitting in your room upstairs, this unknown per- 
son — this stranger — should have cried: ‘Here, 
old woman ! ’ Did he merely guess that the 
establishment was kept by a woman; and that 
this woman was no longer young?” 

“He did not say that.” 

“Reflect a moment; you, yourself, just told 
me so.” 

“I did not say that, my good sir.” 

“Yes, you did, and I will prove it by reading 
your deposition to you. Goquet, read, if you 
please.” 

The smiling clerk at once found the passage, 
and in his clearest voice he read these words, 
taken down as they fell from the Widow Chu- 
pin’slips: 

“ ‘ I had been upstairs about half an hour, when 
I heard some one call from below: “Eh! old 
woman.” I came down, ’ ” etc., etc. 

“Are you convinced?” insisted M. Segmuller. 
The assurance of the old offender was sensibly 
diminished by this setback. But instead of dis^- 
cussing the subject further, th§ judge glided 


‘ MONSIEUR LECOQ. 133 

over it as if he did not attach much importance 
to the incident. 

“And the other men,” he resumed, “those 
who were killed; did you know them?” 

“No, monsieur; no more than I knew Adam 
and Eve.” 

“And were you not surprised to see three per- 
sons entirely unknown to you, and accompanied 
by two ladies, enter your establishment?” 

“Sometimes chance — ” 

“Come! you do not think what you are say- 
ing. It was not chance that brought these cus- 
tomers, in the middle of the night, to a saloon 
that has a reputation like yours — a saloon that 
is situated so far from any frequented route, and 
in the midst of a desolate waste.” 

“I am not a sorceress; what I say, that I 
think.” 

“Then you did not know even the youngest of 
the victims, the man who was attired as a. sol- 
dier, Gustave, in short?” 

“Not at all.” 

M. Segmuller noted the intonation of this re- 
sponse, and he added, more slowly: 

“Certainly you must have heard allusion made 
to a friend of this Gustave, a man called Lache- 
neur?” 

On hearing this name, the proprietress of the 
Poivriere became visibly embarrassed, and it 
was in an altered voice that she stammered: 

“Lacheneur! Lacheneur! I ha ^e never heard 
that name mentioned. ’ ’ 

She denied it, but the effect that had been pro- 
duced was evident, and Lecoq secretly vowed 
that he would find this Lacheneur, or perish in 
the attempt. Was there not among the articles 
of conviction a letter from him, written, as he 
had reason to believe, in a cafe on the Boulevard 
Beaumarchais? 

With such a clew and with patience! 

“Now,” continued M. SegmullSr, “we will 


134 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


speak of the women who accompanied these un- 
fortunate men. What sort of women were they?” 

“Oh! some women of no account whatever!” 

“Were they richly dressed?” 

“Very miserably, on the contrary.” 

‘“Well, give me a description of them.” 

“They were — my good judge, I scarcely saw 
them. They were large and powerfully built 
women; so much so, indeed, that at first, it be- 
ing Shrove Sunday, I took them for men in dis- 
guise. They had hands like shoulders of mut- 
ton, gruff voices, and very black hair. They 
were as dark as mulattoes — ” 

“Enough!” interrupted the judge; “I requijre 
no further proof of your dishonesty. These 
women were small, and one of them was re- 
markably fair.” 

. “I sWMAr to you, my good sir—” 

“Do nofr declare it upon oath. I shall be forced 
to confront you with an* honest man, who will 
tell you that yoU are a liar!” 

She did not reply, and there was a moment’s 
silence. M. Segmuller decided to deal a decisive 
blow. 

“Do you also affirm that you had nothing of a 
compromising character in the pocket of your 
apron?” he demanded. 

“Nothing — ^you may have it examined; it was 
left in the house.” 

“Then you still persist?” resumed M. Seg- 
muller. “Believe me, you are wrong. Reflect 
— it depends solely upon your deposition whether 
you go to the Court of Assizes as a witness, or 
as an accomplice.” 

Although the widow seemed crushed by this 
unexpected blow, the judge said no more. Her 
deposition was read, she signed it and went 
away. 

M. Segmuller immediately seated himself at 
his desk, filled cut a blank and handed it to his 
clerk, saying: 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


135 


‘‘This, Goquet, is an order to be given to the 
keeper of the prison. Tell him to send the mur- 
derer here at once.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

To extort a confession from a man interested 
in preserving silence and persuaded that no 
proofs can be produced against him, is certainly 
a difficult task; but to demand the truth from a 
woman^ under similar circumstances, is, as they 
say at the Palais de Justice, “attempting to 
make the devil confess.” 

Aft^r all, what had been gained by this exam- 
ination, which had been conducted with the 
greatest possible care by a judge who knew how 
to manage his questions as well as a skillful gen- 
eral knows how to maneuver his troops and 
place them in the best possible positions. 

They had discoLvered unexceptionable proof of 
the Widow Chupin’s connivance with the mur- 
derer, and nothing more. 

“That old hag knows all,” murmured Lecoq. 

“Yes,” replied the judge, “it is almost cer- 
tain that she knew the people who came to her 
house — the women, the victims, the murderer — 
all of them, in fact; but it is certain that she 
knew this Gustave — I read it in her eyes. I am 
also convinced that she knows this Lacheneur — 
this man upon whom the dying soldier breathed 
’ vengeance — this mysterious personage who evi- 
dently possesses the key to the enigma. This 
man must be found.” 

“Ah! I will find him if I have to question 
each of the eleven hundred thousand men who 
walk the streets of Paris!” 

This was promising so much that the judge, 
in spite of his pre-occupation, could not suppress 

smile. 


136 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


‘‘If this old woman would only decide to make 
a clean breast of it at her next examination!” 
remarked Lecoq. 

“Yes. But she will never speak.” 

The detective shook his head despondingly. 
Such was his own opinion. He did not delude 
himself with false hopes, and he had noticed be- 
tween the Widow Chupin’s eyebrows those fur- 
rows which betray the senseless obstinacy of the 
brute. 

“Women never confess,” resumed the judge; 
“and when they seem to resign themselves to 
making a revelation,* it is only because they hope 
they have found a way to mislead the examiner. 
Evidence will crush the most obstinate man; he 
ceases to struggle; he makes a confession. A 
woman scoffs at evidence. Show her tne sun, 
and she will close her eyes and reply: ‘It is 
night.’ Men plan and combine different sys- 
tems of defense according to the social position 
in which they were born. Women have but one 
system, whatever their condition in life. They 
deny everything, and always; and they weep. 
When I push the Chupin with disagreeable 
questions, on her next examination, rest assured 
she will turn her eyes into a fountain of tears.” 

In his impatience he angrily stamped his foot, 
i He had many weapons in his arsenal; but he 
could find no weapon powerful enough to break 
a woman’s dogged resistance. 

“If I only understood the motive that guides 
this old hag!” he continued. “But not a clew! 
Who can tell me what powerful interest com-- 
mands her to be silent? Is it her own cause 
that she is defending? Is she an accomplice? 
Who will prove to us that she did not aid the 
murderer in planning an ambuscade?” 

“Yes,” responded Lecoq, slowly, “yes; this 
supposition very naturally presents itself to the 
mind. But think a moment; such a theory 
would prove that the premises which you ad- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


137 


mitted, monsieur, a short time since, were false. 
If the Widow Chupin is an accomplice, the mur- 
derer is not the person we supposed him to be; 
he is simply the man whom he seems to be.” 

This argument was apparently convincing to 
M. Segmuller. 

“What is your opinion?” he exclaimed. 

The young detective had formed his opinion. 
But how could he, a humble policeman, venture 
to express an opinion when a judge hesitated? 

He fully comprehended that his position ne- 
cessitated extreme reserve on his part; and it was 
in the most modest tone possible that he said : 

'“Why might not the pretended drunkard have 
dazzled Mother Chupin’s eyes with promises of a 
brilliant reward? Why might he not have prom- 
ised her money, a large amount?” 

He paused ; the clerk had returned. Behind 
him was a soldier, who remained respectfully 
upon the threshold, his heels in a straight line, 
his right hand upon the visor of his shako, palm 
turned outward, the elbow oh a level with his 
eye, in accordance with the ordinance. 

“Monsieur,” said the man, “the keeper of the 
prison sends me to inquire if he is to keep the 
Widow Chupin in solitary confinement ; she com- 
plains bitterly on account of it.” 

M. Segmuller reflected for a moment. 

“Certainly,” he murmured, as if replying to 
an objection made by his own conscience; “cer- 
tainly, it is a terrible aggravation of one’s sufi^er- 
ing; but if I allow this woman to associate with 
the other prisoners, she will certainly find some 
opportunity to communicate with parties out- 
side. This must not be; the interests of justice 
and of truth must be considered first.” 

This last thought decided him. 

“It is decided that the prisoner must be kept 
in solitary confinement until further orders.” 

The soldier allov^ed his right hand to fall at 


138 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


his side, carried his right foot three inches, back 
of his left heel, wheeled around and departed. 

When the door had closed on the soldier’s re- 
treating form, the smiling clerk drew a large 
envelope from his pocket, and handed it to the 
judge. 

“Here is a communication from the keeper of 
the prison,” he remarked. 

The judge broke the seal, and read aloud: 

“I feel compelled to counsel the judge to sur- 
round himself with every precaution before pro- 
ceeding to the examination of the prisoner. May. 

“Since his unsuccessful attempt at suicide this 
prisoner has been in a state of excitement that 
has obliged us to confine him in a strait- jacket. 
He did not close his eyes during the night, and 
the guards who were watching him expected 
every moment to see him become insane. ' Still, 
he has not uttered a word. 

“When food was offered him this morning, he 
rejected it with horror, and I should not be sur- 
prised if it. were his intention to starve himself 
to death. 

“I have rarely seen a more dangerous male- 
factor. I think him capable of almost any des- 
perate act.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the clerk, whose smile had 
disapppeared, ’“if I were in the place of Mon- 
sieur le Judge, I would have the soldiers who 
brought him here come in with him.” 

“What! you — Goquet; you, an old clerk — 
make such a proposition ! Can it be that you 
are afraid?” 

“Afraid! Ho, certainly not; but—” 

“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that 
betrayed his confidence in his great strength; 
“am I not here?” . 

If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his 
desk that article of furniture would have served 
as a rampart between the prisoner and himself. 
He usually occupied that seat ; but after the fear 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 139 

evinced by his clerk, he would have blushed to 
avail himself of the slightest protection. 

He therefore took a seat by the fireplace, as 
he had done a few moments before while ques- 
tioning the Chupin, and ordered his door-keeper 
to admit the prisoner alone. He emphasized the 
word “alone.” 

A second after, the door was flung open witff 
terrible violence, and the murderer entered, or 
rather precipitated himself into, the room. 

Goquet turned pale behind his table, and Le- 
coq advanced a step, ready to make a spring 
forward. 

But when he reached the center of the room, 
the prisoner paused and looked around him. 

“Where is the judge?” he inquired, in a 
hoarse voice. 

“I am the judge,” replied M. Segmuller. 

“No, the other.” 

“What other?” 

“The one who came to question me last even- 
ing.” 

“He has met with an accident. Yesterday, 
after leaving you, he fell and broke his leg.” 
“Oh!” 

“And I am to take his place.” 

But the prisoner was apparently deaf to the 
explanation. A stupor had suddenly succeeded 
his frenzied excitement. His features, which 
had been so distorted with rage, relaxed. He be- 
came livid; he tottered, as if about to fall. 

“Compose yourself,” said the judge, in a be- 
nevolent tone; “if you are too weak to rernbiin 
standing, take a seat.” 

Already, with a powerful effort, the man had 
recovered his self-possession. A flame, instantly 
suppressed, flashed from his eyes. 

“Many thanks for your kindness,” he replied, 
“but this is nothing. I. felt a slight sensation 
of dizziness, but it is over now.” 

“Is it long since you have eaten anything?” 


140 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I have eaten nothing since this man” — he 
pointed to Lecoq — “brought me some bread and 
wine in the station-house over there.” 

“Do you feel the need of something?” 

“No — and yet — if you would be so good — I 
would like a glass of water.” 

“Will you not have some wine with it?” 

• “I should prefer the pure water.” . 

They brought him what he desired. 

He drained the first glass at a single draught; 
the second he drank more slowly. 

One might have supposed that he was drink- 
ing in life itself. He seemed to have been born 
again. 


CHAPTER XVIII. • 

Eighteen out of every twenty criminals who 
appear before the judge are armed with a more 
or less complete plan of defense, which they have 
conceived and perfected in their solitary cells. 

Innocent or guilty, they have adopted a role 
that commences the instant they cross the thresh- 
hold of that dread room where the magistrate 
awaits them. 

The moment of the prisoner’s entrance is one 
in which the judge must bring all his powers of 
penetration into play. 

The attitude of the man as surely betrays his 
plan of defense as an index table reveals the con- 
tents of a book. 

But in this case M. Segmuller did not think 
that appearances were deceitful. It was evident 
to him that the accused had not thought of feign- 
ing anything; and that the excited frenzy which 
marked his entrance was as real as his present 
stupor. 

At least, all the danger of which the keeper 
had spoken was apparently over. The judge, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


141 


therefore, seated himself at his desk. He felt 
more at ease there, and so to speak, more strong. 
There his back was turned to the window, his 
face was half hidden in shadow; and, in case of 
need, he could, by bending over his desk, con- 
ceal his surprise, or any sign of discomfiture. 

The prisoner, on the contrary, stood in the 
full light, and not a movement of his features, 
not a fluttering of an eyelid, would escape the 
attention of the judge. 

He seemed to have entirely recovered from his 
indisposition ; and his features had assumed an 
expression of careless indifference, or of com- 
plete resignation. 

“Do you feel better?” inquired M. Segmuller. 

“I feel very well.” 

“I hope,” continued the judge, paternally, 
“that you will know how to moderate your 
transports after this. Yesterday you tried to 
destroy yourself. It would have been another 
great crime added , to many others — a crime 
which — ” . 

With a brusk gesture, the prisoner inter- 
rupted him. 

“I have eommitted no crime,” said he, in a 
rough, but no longer threatening voice. “I was 
attacked, and I defended myself. Any one has 
a right to do that. There were three enraged 
men upon me. It was ^ great misfortune, and 
I would give my right hand to repair it; but my 
conscience does not reproach me — that. much!” 

“That much” was a contemptuous snap of his 
finger and thumb. 

“Yet I have been arrested and treated as an 
assassin,” he continued. “When I saw myself 
interred in that living tomb which you call a se- 
cret cell, I was afraid; I lost my senses. I said 
to myself: ‘My boy, they have buried you alive; 
and it is better to die, and that quickly, if you 
do not wish to suffer.’ Then I tried to strangle 
myself. My death would have brought sorrow 


142 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to no one. I have neither wife nor child depend- 
ent upon me. To prevent me from destroying 
myself, after I was bled, they placed me in a 
strait- jacket, as if I were a madman. Mad! I 
really believed I should become so. All night 
long the jailers were around me, like children 
who are amusing themselves by tormenting a 
chained animal. They watched me; they talked 
.about me; they passed the candle to and fro be- 
fore my eyes.” 

All this was uttered with intense bitterness, 
but without any display of anger — forcibly, but 
with no attempt at oratorical display; uttered, 
in short, as one’s deep emotions and convictions 
are always uttered. 

And the same thought entered the mind of the 
judge and of the detective at the same instant. 

“This man,” they thought, “is very clever; 
it will not be easy to get the advantage of him.” 

After a moment’s reflection, M. Segmuller 
said: 

“This explains your first act of despair in the 
prison; but later, this morning, even, you re- 
fused the nourishment that was offered to you.” 

The man’s lowering face brightened suddenly 
on hearing this remark; he gave a comical wink 
and Anally burst into a hearty laugh — a gay, 
frank, sonorous laugh. 

“That,” said he, “-is quite another thing. 
Certainly, I refused all they offered me, and now 
I will tell you why. I had my hands confined 
in the strait- jacket, and the jailer tried to feed 
me as a nurse feeds a baby with broth. Ah ! no, 
I thank you. I closed my lips with all my 
strength. Then he tried to force open tny mouth 
and push the spoon in, as he would open the 
mouth of a sick dog and push his medicine down 
his throat. Devil take his impertinence! I 
tried to bite him ; that is the truth, and if I had 
succeeded in getting his finger between my teeth 
it would have stayed there. And only because I 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


143 


have done this, they raise their hands to heaven 
in holy horror, and pointing at me say: ‘Here 
is a terrible man! a horrible rascal! ’ ” 

He seemed to enjoy the recollection of the 
scene exceedingly, for he burst into another 
hearty laugh, to the great amazement of Lecoq, 
and to the great scandal of good Goquet, the 
clerk. 

M. Segmuller also found it very difficult to 
conceal his intense surprise. 

“You are too reasonable, I hope,” said he, at 
last, “to attach any blame to these men, who, in 
confining you, were merely obeying the orders of 
their superior officers, and who were only trying 
to save you from your own violent passions.” 

“Hum!” responded the prisoner, becoming 
serious at once. “I do, however, and if I had 
one of them in a corner — But I shall get over 
it. If I know myself, I have no more spite in 
my composition than a chicken.” . 

“It depends only upon yourself how you are to 
be treated ; be calm, and they will never place 
you in a strait* jacket. But you must bo quiet 
and well-behaved.” 

The murderer sadly shook his head. 

“I shall be very prudent hereafter,” said he; 
“but it is terribly ha<rd to stay in prison when 
one has nothing to do. If I had comrades, we 
could laugh and chat, and the time would slip 
by; but to remain alone, entirely alone, in that 
cold cell, where one hears not even a sound — it 
is horrible. It is so damp there that the water 
trickles down the walls, and one might swear 
that the moisture was real tears, men’s tears is- 
suing from the stone.” 

The judge bent over his desk to make a note. 
The word “co. irades” had attracted his atten- 
tion, and he proposed to make the prisoner ex- 
plain it later. 

“If you are innocent,” he remarked, “you will 


144 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


soon be released ; but it is necessary to establish 
your innocence.” 

“What must I do to establish it?” 

“Tell the truth, the whole truth; answer hon- 
estly and unreservedly the questions I shall put 
to you. ’ ’ 

“As for that, you may depend upon me.” 

He lifted his hand, as if to call upon God and 
man to witness his sincerity. M. Segmuller 
ordered him to drop it, adding: 

“Parties who are accused do not take the 
oath.” 

“Indeed!” said the man, with an astonished 
air ; “ that is strange ! ’ ’ 

Although the judge had apparently paid but 
little attention to the prisoner, he had not failed 
' to notice his '^very movement. He had desired 
to reassure hjm, to make him feel at ease, to 
quiet his susp^icions as much as possible; and 
he believed that this result had been attained. 

“Now,” said he, “you will give me your at- 
tention ; and do not forget that your liberty de- 
pends upon your frankness. What is your 
name?” 

“May.” 

“What is your Christian name?” 

“I have none.” 

“That is impossible.” 

A movement of the prisoner betrayed an im- 
patience which was quickly suppressed. 

“This,” he replied, “is the third time since 
yesterday I have received that answer. What I 
told you is the truth, however. If I were a liar, 
nothing would be easier than for me to tell you 
that my name was Peter, James, or John. But 
lying is not my forte. Really, I have no Chris- 
tian name. If it were a question of surnames, 
it would be quite another thing. I have had 
plenty of them.” 

“What were they?” 

“Let me see — to commence with, when I was 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


145 


with Father Fougasse, I was called Affiloir, be- 
cause, you see — ” 

“Who was this Father Fougasse?” 

“The king of men for wild beasts, monsieur. 
Ah ! he could boast of a menagerie that was a 
menagerie. Tigers, lions, paroquets of every 
color, serpents as large as your thigh — he had 
everything. But unfortunately — ” 

Was the man jesting, or was he in earnest? 
It was so hard to decide that M. Segmuller and 
Lecoq were equally in doubt. Goquet, while 
writing his report, laughed. • 

“Enough,” interrupted the judge. “How old 
are you?” 

“Forty-four or forty-five years of age.” 

“Where were you born?” 

“In Brittany, probably.” 

In this reply M. Segmuller thought he discov- 
ered an inclination to levity which must be re- 
pressed. 

“I warn you,” said he, severely, “that if you 
go on in this way your liberty will be greatly 
compromised. Each of your responses is a breach 
of propriety.” 

The most sincere distress, mingled with anxi- 
ety, was visible upon the countenance of the 
murderer. 

“Ah! I meant no offense, sir,” he sighed. 
“You questioned me and I replied. You will 
see that I have spoken the truth, if you will al- 
low me to tell you the history of the whole affair. ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution 
is instructed,” is an old proverb at the Palais de 
Justice. 

It does, indeed, seem almost impossible for a 
culprit, closely watched by the judge, to speak 


146 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


more than a few words without betraying his 
intentions or his thoughts; without, in short, re- 
vealing more or less of the secret he is endeavor- 
ing to conceal. 

Even the most simple-minded of criminals 
understand this, and those who are most shrewd 
are generally most reserved. 

Confining themselves entirely to the few facts 
upon which they have founded their defense, they 
leave this safe ground only when they are abso- 
lutely compelled to .do so, and then only with the 
utmost caution. 

When questioned, they reply, of course, but 
always briefly; and they are very sparing of de- 
tails. 

In this case, however, the accused was prodi- 
gal of words. He did not seem to apprehend that 
there was danger lest he should cut his own 
throat. He did not hesitate like those who are 
fearful of misplacing a word of the romance they 
are substituting for the truth. 

Under other circumstances this fact would 
have been a strong argument in his favor. 

“You may tell your own story, then,” was 
M. Segmuller’s response to the indirect request 
of the prisoner. 

The murderer did not attempt to conceal the 
joy which had been awakened in his heart by be- 
ing allowed to plead his own cause, in his own 
way. 

The sparkling of his eyes, the dilation of his 
nostrils, revealed his satisfaction. 

He seated himself, threw his head back, passed 
his tongue over his lips, as if to moisten them, 
and said : 

“Am I‘ to understand that you wish to hear 
my history?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then j^ou must know that one day about 
forty-five years ago. Father Tringlot, the mana- 
ger of a traveling company of athletes and aero- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


147 


bats, was going from Guingamp to Sainte- 
Briene. He was making the journey in two 
large carriages, with his wife, his equipments, 
and the members of his company. Very well. 
But soon after leaving quite a large city named 
Chatelaudren, he perceived something white ly- 
ing by the roadside, near the edge of a ditch. ‘I 
must go and see what it is,’ he said to his wife. 
He stopped the horses, descended from the car- 
riage, went to the ditch, picked up the object, 
and uttered a cry of surprise. You will ask me 
Svhat this man had found?’ Ah! mon Dieu! 
A mere trifle. He had found your very humble 
servant; then aged about six months.” 

With these last words he made a low bow to 
his auditors. 

“Naturally, Father Tringlot carried me to his 
wife,” he continued. “She was a kind-hearted 
woman. She took me, examined me, fed me, 
and said; ‘He is a strong, healthy child; we 
will keep him, since his - mother has been so 
wicked as to abandon him. I will teach him; 
and in flve or six years he will be an honor to 
us. ’ Then they tried to decide upon a name for 
me. It was in the early part of the month of 
May, so they concluded to call me May; and 
May I have been from that day to this.” 

He paused, and looked from one to another of 
his listeners, as if seeking some sign of approval. 
None being forthcoming, he went on with his 
story ; 

“Father Tringlot was an uneducated man, 
and entirely ignorant of the law. He did not 
inform the authorities that he had found a child, 
and for this reason, although I was living, I did 
not exist; for to exist it is necessary to have 
one’s name and birth inscribed upon the mayor’s 
register. 

“When I became older, I rather congratulated 
myself on this omission on Father Tringlot’s 
part. 


148 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


"“I said to myself: ‘May, my boy, you have 
no place on any government register, conse- 
quently there is no fear that you will ever be 
drawn as a soldier. ’ 

“I had no desire to be a soldier; no fancy for 
being made food for bullets and cannon-balls. 

“Afterward, when the age for conscription had 
passed, a lawyer told me that I would make a 
great deal of trouble for myself if I sought a 
place on the civil register at that late day; so I 
decided to exist surreptitiously. 

“And this is why I have no Christian name, 
and why I cannot say exactly where I was born.” 

If truth has any particular accent of its own, 
as moralists have asserted, the murderer had 
found that accent. 

Voice, gesture, glance, expression, all were in 
accord ; not a word of his long story had rung 
false. 

“ISTow,” said M. Segmuller, coldly, “what are 
your means of subsistence?” 

By the discomfited mien of the murderer, one 
would have supposed that he had expected to see 
his prison doors fly open at the conclusion of his 
last remarks. 

“I have a profession,” he replied, plaintively. 
“The one taught me by Mother Tringlot. I sub- 
sist by its practice; and I have lived in France 
and in other countries.” 

The judge thought he had found a flaw in the 
armor. 

“Do you say you have lived in foreign coun- 
tries?” he inquired. 

“Yes; during the seventeen years that I 
formed a part of M. Simpson’s company, I trav- 
eled most of the time in England and in Ger- 
many.” 

“Then you are a gymnast and an athlete. 
How is it that your hands are so white and so 
soft?” 

Far from being embarrassed, the prisoner 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


149 


lifted his hands and examined them with evi- 
dent complacency. 

“It is true that they are pretty,” said he; 
“that is because I take good care of them and 
do not use them.” 

“Do they pay you, then, for doing noth- 
ing?” 

“Ah, no, indeed! But, sir, my duty consists 
in speaking to the public, in turning a compli- 
ment, and in making things pass off pleasantly, 
as the saying' is; and, without boasting, I flatter 
myself that I have a certain knack — ” 

M. Segmuller stroked his chin, according to his 
habit when a prisoner committed some grave 
blunder. 

“In that case,”said he, “will you give me an 
exhibition of your talent?” 

“Ah, ha,” laughed the man, evidently sup- 
posing this a jest on the part of the magistrate. 
“Ah, ha!” 

“Obey, if you please,” insisted the judge. 

The murderer made no objection. His mobile 
face immediately assumed an entirely different 
expression; a singular mixture of impudence, 
conceit and irony played upon his features. 

He caught up a ruler that was lying upon the 
desk, and in a shrill, falsetto voice, and with 
many flourishes, he began : 

“Silence, music! And you, big drum, hold 
your peace ! This, ladies and gentlemen, is the 
hour, the moment, and the instant for the grand 
and only performance of these great artists ; un- 
equaled in the world in their feats upon the 
trapeze and on the tight-rope, and in other exer- 
cises of grace, suppleness and strength.” 

“That is sufficient,” interrupted the judge. 
“You can speak thus in France; but what do 
you say in Germany?” 

“Of "course, I use the language of that coun- 
try.” 


150 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Let US see!’^ commanded M. Segmuller, 
whose mother tongue was German. 

The prisoner dropped his mocking manner, as- 
sumed an air of comical importance, and, with- 
out the slightest hesitation, he said, in very em- 
phatic tones : 

Beioilligung der hochloehlichen Obrig- 
keit tvird heute vor liiesiger ehrenwertTien 
Burgerscliaft zum erstenmal aufge fuhrt — 
Genovesa, oder del — ” * 

“ Enough, said the judge, harshly. 

He rose, to conceal his chagrin, perhaps; and 
added : 

“We will send for an interpreter who can tell 
us whether you speak English as fluently. ” 

Oh hearing these words, Lecoq modestly 
stepped forward. 

“I speak English,” said he. 

“Very well. You hear, prisoner?” 

But the man was already transformed. Brit- 
tanic gravity and apathy were written upon his 
features; his gestures were stiff and constrained, 
and it was in the most, ponderous tones that he 
said: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, longlife to our queen 
and to the honorable mayor of this town! No 
country, England excepted — our glorious En- 
gland ! — could produce such a marvelous thing, 
such a paragon — ” 

For a minute or two longer he continued in 
the same strain. 

M. Segmuller was leaning upon his desk, his 
face bowed upon his hands. Lecoq could not 
conceal his astonishment. 

Only Gc^uet, the smiling clerk, found the) 
scene amusing. 


* “With the permission of the local authorities, there 
will now be presented before the honorable citizens, for 
the first time — Genevieve, or the — ” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


151 


CHAPTER XX. 

The keeper of the depot, a fiiactionary who 
had gained the reputation of being an oracle by 
twenty years of experience in prisons and with 
prisoners — a man whom it was difficult to de- 
ceive — had written to the judge: 

“Surround yourself with every precaution be- 
fore examining the prisoner, May.” 

And instead of the dangerous malefactor, the 
very announcement of whose coming had made 
the clerk turn pale, the prisoner proved to be a 
practical, harmless, and jovial philosopher, vain 
of his eloquence, a man whose existence depended 
upon his ability to turn a compliment; in short, 
a somewhat erratic genius. 

This was a strange mistake.* But this did not 
cause M. Segmuller to abandon the theory ad- 
vanced by Lecoq; he had become more than ever 
convinced of its truth. 

If he remained silent, with his elbows propped 
upon his desk, and his hands clasped over his 
eyes, it was only that he might gain time for 
reflection. 

The manner and attitude of the prisoner were 
remarkable. 

When his English “compliment” Avas ended, 
he remained standing in the center of the room, 
his countenance wearing an expression half- 
pleased, half-anxious. But he was as much at 
ease as if he were upon the stage where, if one 
could believe his story, he had passed the greater 
part of his life. 

By the combined efforts of all his intellectual 
powers and his penetration, the judge attempted 
to seize upon something, even if it were only some 
indication of weakness on this face, which in its 
mobility was more enigmatical than the bronze 
face of the sphinx. 


152 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Thus far M. Segmuller had been worsted in 
the encounter. 

It is true, however, that he had made no di- 
rect attack, nor had he made use of any of the 
weapons which Lecoq had forged for his use. 

But he was none the less annoyed at his de- 
feat. It was easy to discern this by the brusk 
manner in which he lifted his head after a few 
moments of silence. 

“I see that you speak three European lan- 
guages correctly,” said he. “It is a rare 
talent.” 

The prisoner bowed, and smiled complacently. 

“But that does not establish your identity,” 
continued the judge. “Have you any acquaint- 
ances in Paris? Can you indicate any respecta- 
ble person who will vouch for the truth of this 
story?” 

“Ah! monsieur, it is seventeen years since I 
left France.” 

“It is unfortunate, but the prosecution would 
not be content with such reasons. . It would be 
too easy to escape the consequences of one’s for- 
mer life. Tell me of your last patron, M. Simp- 
son. Who was this man?” 

“M. Simpson is a rich man,” replied the pris- 
oner, rather coldly, “worth more than two hun- 
dred thousand francs, and honest. In Germany 

traveled with a show of marionnettes, in En- , 
gland with a collection of phenomena, to suit the 
taste of the country.” 

“Very well! This millionaire could testify in 
your favor; it would be easy to find him, I sup- 
pose?” 

“Certainly!”. May responded, emphatically. 
“M. Simpson would willingly do me this favor. 
It would be easy enough to find him, only it 
would require considerable time.” 

“Why?” 

“Because at the present moment he is — he 
must be en route to America. It was on ac- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


153 


count of this journey that I left his company — I 
detest the ocean. ’ ’ 

The intense anxiety that had stopped the beat- 
ings of Lecoq’s heart was dissipated. He 
breathed again. 

“Ah!” said the judge, very slowly. 

“When I say that he is en resumed 

the prisoner, “I may be mistaken. He may not 
have started yet. But he had arranged all his 
business matters for departure before we sepa- 
rated.” 

“Upon what ship was he to sail?” 

“He did not tell me.” 

“Where was he when you left him?” 

“At Leipsic.” 

“When was this?” 

“Last Wednesday.” 

M. Segmuller shrugged his shoulders disdain- 
fully. 

“Do you say you were in Leipsic on Wednes- 
day? How long have you been in Paris?” 

“Since Sunday afternoon, at four o’clock.” 

“It will be necessary to prove that.” 

By the contracted brow of the murderer, one 
would naturally have supposed that he was mak- 
ing a strenuous effort to remember something. 
For about a minute he seemed to be seeking 
something. He cast questioning glances first at 
the ceiling then at the floor, scratching his head 
and tapping his foot in evident perplexity. 

“How can I prove it — how?” he murmured. 

The judge did not appear disposed to wait. 

“I will make a suggestion to aid you,” said 
he. “The people at the inn where you boarded 
while in Leipsic must remember you.” 

“We did not stop at an inn.” 

“Where did you eat and sleep then?” 

“In M. Simpson’s large traveling-carriage; it 
had been sold, but he was not to give it up until 
he reached the port from which he was to em- 
bark.” 


154 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What port was that?” 

“I do not kaow.” 

Less accustomed to concealing his impressions 
than the judge, Lecoq could not help rubbing 
his hands^ so great was his satisfaction. He saw 
that the prisoner was convicted of falsehood — 
‘driven to the wall,” as he expressed it. 

“So you have only your own affirmation to 
offer in support of this story?” inquired the 
judge. 

“Wait a moment,” said the accused, extend- 
ing his arm as if to clutch a still vague inspira- 
tion — “wait a moment. When I arrived in Paris 
I had a trunk; it contains my linen, which is all 
marked with the first letter of my name. There 
are also some coats, several pairs of pantaloons, 
and two costumes for wear when I appear in 
public.” 

“Goon.” 

“On my arrival in Paris I took this trunk to 
a hotel'quite near the railway station.” 

He stopped short, evidently embarrassed. 

“What is the name of this hotel?” demanded 
the judge. 

“Alas! that is exactly what I am trying to 
recollect. I have forgotten it. But I have not 
forgotten the house. I can see it yet; and, if 
some one would take me to the neighborhood, I 
should certainly recognize it. The people at the 
hotel would know me; besides, my trunk would 
prove the truth of my story.” 

Lecoq mentally resolved to make a tour of in- 
vestigation through the hotels which surrounded 
the northern depot. 

“Very well,” remarked the judge. “Perhaps 
we will do as you request. Now, there are two 
questions which I desire to ask. If you arrived 
in Paris at four o’clock in the afternoon, how 
did it happen that by midnight of the same day 
you had found the Poivriere, a haunt of noto- 
rious characters, situated in a lonely spot, and 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


155 


which it would be impossible to find at night if 
one was not familiar with the locality? In the 
second place, how does it happen, if you possess 
such clothing as you describe, that you are so 
poorly dressed?” 

The man smiled at these questions. 

“That is what I will explain to you,” he re- 
sponded. “When one travels third-class, one is 
sure to ruin one’s clothing; that is why, on leav- 
ing Leipsic, I put on the worst clothing I had. 
When I arrived here, and felt the pavements of 
Paris beneath my feet, I went wild with delight. 
I became a fool. I had some money in my 
pocket — it was Shrove Sunday — my only thought 
was to make a night of it. I did not think of 
changing my clothes. Having formerly found 
much amusement near the Barriere d’ltalie, I 
hastened there and entered a wine-shop. While 
I was engaged eating a morsel, two men came 
in and began talking about spending the night 
at a ball at the Rainbow. I asked them to take 
me with them ; they consented. I paid their bill, 
and we started. But soon after our arrival there 
these young men left me and joined the dancers. 
It was not long before I began to weary of play- 
ing the part of looker-on. Vexed and disap- 
pointed, I left the inn, and being foolish enough 
to disliko to ask my way, I wandered on and lost 
my way, while traversing a large tract of unoc- 
cupied land. I was about to retrace my steps, 
when I saw a light in the distance. I walked 
straight toward it, and arrived at that cursed 
hovel.” 

“What happened then?” 

“Oh! I went in; called for some one. A 
woman came. I asked for a glass of brandy ; 
she brought it. I sat down and lighted a cigar. 
Then I looked about me. The interrior was hor- 
rible enough to frighten one. Three men and 
two women were drinking and chatting in low 
tones at another table. My face did not seem to 


156 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


suit them. One of them rose, came to me, and 
said: ‘You are a policeman; you have come 
here to play the spy on us; that is very plain.’ 
I answered that I was. not. He replied that I was. 
I again declared I was not. In short, he swore 
that he was sure of it, and that I had on a false 
beard. Thereupon he caught hold of my beard 
and pulled it. This made me mad. I jumped 
up, and with a blow of my fist felled him to the 
ground. Misery! In an instant all the others 
wereupbnme! I had my revolver — you know 
the rest.” 

“And the two women, while this was going 
on, what were they doing?” 

“Ah! I was too busy to pay any attention to 
them. They disappeared.” 

“But you saw them when you entered the sa- 
loon — what were they like?” 

“They were, upon my word! two big ugly 
creatures, as tall as grenadiers, and as ' dark as 
moles.” 

Between plausible falsehood and improbable 
truth, justice, human justice, and therefore lia- 
ble to error, is compelled to decide as best it can. 

For the past hour M. Segmuller had not been 
free from mental disquietude. But his doubts 
vanished when he heard the prisoner declare 
that the two women were tall and dark. 

In his opinion this audacious falsehood proved 
that there was a perfect understanding between 
the murderer and the Widow Chupin. 

If the man had said: “The women were fair,” 
M. Segmuller would not have known what to 
believe. 

Certainly his satisfaction was great; but his 
face did not betray it. It was of the utmost im- 
portance that the prisoner should believe that he 
had succeeded in deceiving the judge. 

“You must understand how necessary it is 
to find these women,” said the judge, kindly. 
“If their testimony corresponds with your alle- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


gatioas, your ianocence will be proved concK 
si vely. ’ 

“YesJ I understand that; but how can I put 
my hand upon them?” 

“The police can aid you — these agents are al- 
ways at the service of prisoners who desire to 
make use of them in establishing their inno- 
cence. Did you make any observations which 
might aid in the discovery of these women?” 

Lecoq, whose eyes never wandered from the 
prisoner’s face, fancied that he saw the least 
shadow of a smile on the man’s lips. 

“I remarked nothing,” he said, coldly. 

M. Segmuller had opened the drawer of his 
desk a moment before. He now took from it 
the ear-ring which had been found at the scene 
of the tragedy, and, handing it abruptly to the 
prisoner, he asked : 

“So you did not notice this in the ear of one 
of the women?” 

The imperturbable coolness of the accused did 
not forsake him. 

He took the ornament, examined it attentive- 
ly, held it up to the light, admired its brilliant 
fires, and said : 

“It is a very handsome stone; but I did not 
notice it.” 

“This stone,” remarked the judge, “is a dia- 
mond.” 

“Ah!” 

“Yes; and worth several thousand francs.” 

“So much as that!” 

This exclamation was in accord with the spirit 
of his role; but the prisoner had failed to assume 
a suitable show of simplicity, or, rather, he had 
exaggerated it. 

A nOmad like himself, who had, as he claimed, 
visited all the capitals of Europe, would not have 
been so astonished on hearing the value of a dia- 
mond. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


y 

Still, M. Segmuller did not seem to notice the 
discrepancy. 

‘ ‘ Another thing, ’ ’ said he. ‘ ‘ W hen you threw 
down your pistol, crying: ‘Come and take me,’ 
what did you intend to do?”* 

“I intended to make my escape.” 

“In what way?” 

^^Dame ! — by the door, sir, by — ” 

“Yes, by the back door,” said the judge, with 
freezing irony. “It remains for you to explain 
how you — you who had just entered that hovel 
for the first time — could have known of this 
door.” 

For this time, the eye of the prisoner grew 
troubled ; his assurance disappeared. But it was 
only for an instant ; then he laughed, but it was 
a false laugh, that poorly concealed his anxiety. 

“What nonsense!” he responded. “I had just 
seen the two women go out by that door.” 

“Pardon me, you have just declared that you 
did not see the departure of these women; that 
you were too busy to watch their movements.” 

“Did I say that?-” 

“Word for word; the passage shall be read to 
you. Goquet, read.” 

The clerk read the passage referred to, but the 
man undertook to show that they had misunder- 
stood his remark. “He had- not said — at least, 
he did not intend to say — they had quite misun- 
derstood him — ” 

Lecoq was jubilant. 

“Ah! my good fellow,” he thought, “you con- 
tradict yourself — you are in deep water — you are 
lost.’; 

^ This reflection was the more just as the situa- 
tion of the prisoner was like that of a man who, 
without knowing how to swim, had advanced 
into the sea until the water was above his chin. 
Thus far he had preserved his equilibrium very 
well ; but now he totters — soon he loses his foot- 
ing — he sinks! 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


15o 


‘‘Enough — enough!” said the judge. “Now, 
if you started out merely with the intention of 
amusing yourself, how did it happen that you 
took your pistol with you?” 

“I had it with me while I was traveling, and 
I did not think to leave it at the hotel any more 
than I thought to change my clothes.” 

“Where did you purchase it?” 

“It was given me by M. Simpson as a souve- 
nir.” 

“Confess that this M. Simpson is a very con- 
venient personage,” said the judge, coldly. 
“Still,' go on with your story. Two chambers 
only of this murderous weapon have been dis- 
charged, and three men were killed. You have 
not told me the end of the affair.” 

“Alas!” exclaimed the man, in saddened 
tones, “ what is the use? Two of my assailants 
had fallen; the struggle now was an equal one. 
I seized the remaining man, the soldier, about 
the body, and threw him down. He fell against 
a corner of the table, and did not rise again.” 

M. Segmuller had unfolded upon his desk the 
plan of the saloon drawn by Lecoq. 

“Come here,” he said, addressing the pris- 
oner, “and indicate upon the paper the precise 
spot occupied by you and by your adversaries.” 

May obeyed, and with an assurance of man- 
ner a little surprising in a man in his apparent 
position, he explained the drama. 

“I entered,” said he, “by- this door, marked 
C; I seated myself at the table, H, which is to 
the left of the entrance; the others occupied this 
table, which is between the fireplace, F, and 
window, B.” 

When he had finished: 

“I must admit,” said the judge, “that your 
assertions are in perfect accord with the state- 
ments of the physicians, who say that one of the 
shots must have been fired at a distance of about 


160 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


a yard, and the other at a distance of about two 
yards.” 

The accused had triumphed; but he only 
shrugged his shoulders and jnurmured : 

“That proves that the physicians knew their 
business.” 

Lecoq was delighted ; he felt that, had he been 
a judge, he would have conducted this examina- 
tion in precisely the same way. 

He blessed Heaven that had given him M. 
Segmuller in place of M. d’Escorval. 

“This admitted,” resumed the judge, “there 
remains to be explained a sentence uttered by 
you when this agent, whom you see here, arrest- 
ed you.” 

“What sentence?” 

“You said: ‘It is the Prussians who are com- 
ing; I am lost!’ What did you mean by 
that?” 

A fleeting crimson tinged the cheek of the pris- 
oner. It was evident that he had anticipated 
the other questions, and that he had been pre- 
pared for them; but that this one was unex- 
pected. 

“It is very strange,” said -he, with ill-dis- 
guised embarrassment, “that. I should have said 
such a thing.” 

“Five persons heard you,” insisted the judge. 

Evidently he was endeavoring to gain time; 
he was hunting for an explanation. 

“After all,” replied the man, “the thing is 
very possible. It .was a phrase that was often 
repeated by an old soldier of Napoleon’s body- 
guard, who, after the battle of W'^aterloo, entered 
the service of M. Simpson.” 

This explanation, though rather slow in com- 
ing, was none the less ingenious. At last M. 
Segmuller appeared to be perfectly satisfied. 

“That is very plausible,” said he; “but there 
is one circumstance that passes my comprehen- 
sion. Were you freed from your assailants be- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 161 

fore the entrance of the policeman? Answer me, 
yes or no.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why, instead of making your escape by 
the door,, whose existence you had divined, did 
you remain upon the threshold of the communi- 
cating door, with a table before you to serve as 
a barricade, your pistol directed toward the po- 
lice, holding them at bay?’^ 

The man hung his head, and they were obliged 
to wait for his response. 

“I was a fool,” he stammered, at last. “I 
did not know whether these men were agents of 
the police force or friends of the men I had 
killed.” 

“Your self-interest would have impelled you 
to flee from one as well as from the other.” 

The murderer was silent. 

“Ah, well!” resumed M. Segmuller, “the 
prosecution is of the opinion that you designedly 
and voluntarily exposed yourself to the danger 
of arrest in order to protect the retreat of the two 
women who were in the saloon.” 

“Why should I hav.e risked my own safety 
for two hussies whom I did not even know?” 

“Pardon me. The prosecution are strongly 
inclined to believe that you knew these two wo- 
men very well.” 

“I should like to see any one prove this!” 

He laughed sneeringly, but the laugh was 
frozen upon his lips by the tone of assurance 
in which the judge uttered these words : 

“I will prove this to you!” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

These difficult and delicate questions of per- 
sonal identity are the bane of magistrates. 

Railroads, photography, and telegraphic com- 


162 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


muaication have multiplied the means of inves- 
tigation in vain. Every day it happens that 
malefactors succeed in deceiving the judge in 
regard to their true personality, and thus escape 
the consequences of their former crimes. 

This is so frequently the case that a witty at- 
torney-general once laughingly remarked — and, 
perhaps, he was only half in jest: 

“This uncertainty in regard to identity will 
cease only on the day when the law prescribes 
that a number shall be branded upon the shoul- , 
der of every child whose birth is reported to the 
mayor. ’ ’ 

M. Segmuller certainly wished that a number 
had been branded upon the enigmatical prisoner 
before him. 

And yet he did not by any means despair, and 
his confidence, exaggerated, though it might be, 
was not feigned. 

He thought this circumstance, in connection 
with the two women, was the weak spot in the 
prisoner’s plan of defense — the point upon which 
he must concentrate all his efforts. 

When he felt that his threat had had time to 
produce its full effect, he continued ; 

“So, prisoner, you assert that you were ac- 
quainted with none of the persons you met in 
the saloon.” 

“I swear it.” 

“Have you never had occasion to meet one 
Lacheneur, an individual whose name is con- 
nected with this unfortunate affair?” 

“I heard this name for the first time when the 
dying soldier uttered it, adding that this Lache- 
neur was an old comedian.” 

He heaved a deep sigh, and continued : 

“Poor soldier! I had just dealt him his death- 
blow; and yet his last words testified to my inno- 
cence.” 

^ This sentimental outburst produced no impres- 
sion whatever upon the magistrate. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


163 


“Consequently/’ resumed the judge, “you are 
willing to accept the deposition of this soldier?” 

The man hesitated, as if conscious that he had 
fallen into a snare, and that he would be obliged 
to weigh each response carefully. 

“I accept it,” said he, at last. “Of course, I 
accept it.” 

“Very well. This soldier, you must recollect, 
wished to revenge himself upon Lacheneur, who, 
by promising him money, had inveigled him 
into a conspiracy. A conspiracy against whom? 
Evidently against you; and yet you pretend that 
you had only arrived in Paris that evening, and 
that the merest chance had alone brought j^ou to 
the Poivriere. Can you reconcile such conflict- 
ing statements?” 

The prisoner had the hardihood to shrug his 
shoulders disdainfully. 

“I see the matter in an entirely different 
light,” said he. “These people were plotting 
mischief against — I do not know who — and it 
was because I was in their way that they sought 
a quarrel with me, without any cause whatever.” 

The judge’s sword-thrust had been skillfully 
made, but it had been as skillfully parried; so 
skillfully, indeed, that the smiling clerk could 
not conceal an approving grimace. Besides, on 
principle, he always took the part of the prisoner 
— in a very mild way, understand. 

“Let us consider the circumstances that fol- 
lowed your arrest,” resumed M. Segmuller. 
“Why did you refuse to answer all questions?” 

A gleam of real or assumed resentment shone 
in the eyes of the prisoner. 

“This examination,” he growled, “will be 
quite sufficient to make a culprit out of an in- 
nocent man !” 

“I advise you, in your own interest, to deport 
yourself properly. Those who arrested you ob- 
served that you were conversant with all the 
formalities, and with the rules of the prison.” 


164 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Ah! sir, have I not told you that I have been 
arrested and put in prison several times — always 
on account of my papers. I told you the truth, 
and consequently you should not taunt me.” 

He had dropped his mask of careless gayety, 
and had assumed a surly, discontented tone. 

But his troubles were not ended; the battle had 
but just begun. M. Segmuller laid a tiny linen 
bag upon his desk. 

“Do you recognize this?” he asked. 

“Perfectly ! It is the package that was placed 
in the safe by the keeper of the prison.” 

The judge opened the bag, and poured, the 
dust that it contained out upon a sheet of paper. 

“You are avyare, prisoner,” said he, “that 
this dust is from the mud that adhered to your 
feet. The agent of police who collected it went 
to the station-house where you had spent the 
preceding night, and he has discovered between 
this dust and the earth which forms the floor of 
the station-house a perfect uniformity.” 

The man listened v/ith wide-open mouth. 

“Hence,” continued the judge, “it was cer- 
tainly at the station-house, and designedly^ that 
you soiled your feet in the mud. What was your 
object?” 

“I wished — ” 

“Let me flnish. Resolved to guard the secret 
of your identity, and to assume the individuality 
of a man of the lower orders of society — of a 
mountebank, if you please — you reflected that 
the delicacy of your appearance would betray 
you. You foresaw the impression that would 
be produced when, upon removing the coarse, ill- 
fitting boots that you wore, the officers saw 
shapely, nicely-cared for feet like yours; for 
they a,re as well kept as your hands. What did 
you do, therefore? You emptied upon the ground 
the water that was in the pitcher in your cell, 
and then dabbled your feet in the mud that had 
been formed. ” 


MOXriEUR LECOQ. 


Daring these remarks the face of the prisoner 
had expressed, by turns, anxiety, the most com- 
ical astonishment, irony, and at last a frank 
gayety. 

At the conclusion, he seemed unable to re- 
strain the burst of merriment which prevented 
him from making any reply. 

“This is what one gets by searching around 
for twelve or fourteen hours,” he said, as soon 
as he could speak, and addressing, not the judge, 
but Lecoq. “Ah! Mister Agent, it is well to 
be sharp; but not so sharp as that. The truth 
is, that when I was taken to the station-house, 
forty-eight hours — thirty-six of them. spent on 
the railroad cars — had elapsed since I had taken 
off my shoes. My feet were red, swollen, and 
burned like fire. What did I do? I poured 
some water on them. As for your other sus- 
picions, if I have a soft and white skin, it is 
only because I take care of myself. Besides, as 
is usual vvith most men in my profession, I 
never wear anything but slippers on ijiy feet. 
This is so true, that on leaving Leipsic, I owned 
only one pair of boots, and that was an old cast- 
off pair given me by M. Simpson.” 

Lecoq struck himself upon the breast: “Fool, 
imbecile, idiot, that I am!” he thought. “He 
was waiting to be questioned in regard to this 
circumstance. When this man, who is wonder- 
fully shrewd, saw me take this dust, he divined 
my intention; he has been seeking for an ex- 
planation, and he has found it — and it is a plau- 
sible one — any jury would believe it.” 

M. Segmuller was saying the same thing to 
himself. But he was not so surprised nor so 
overcome by the cleverness of the prisoner. 

“Let us continue,” said he. “Do you still 
persist in your affirmations, prisoner?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very well; then I shall be forced to tell you 
that you are saying what is untrue.” 


<J 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The prisoner’s lips trembled very visibly, and 
he faltered: “May my first mouthful of bread 
strangle me if I have uttered a single falsehood!” 

“A single falsehood! — wait.” 

The judge took from his desk-drawer the 
molds of the foot-prints which Lecoq had made, 
and showing them to the murderer, he said: 

“You have told me that these women were as 
tall as grenadiers; now see the foot-prints made 
by these immense women. They were as ‘dark 
as moles,’ you said; a witness will tell you that 
one of them was a small, very delicate blonde, 
with an exceedingly sweet voice.” 

He sought the prisoner’s eyes, found them, 
and added, slowly : 

“And this witness is the coachman whose car- 
riage was hired in the Rue du Chevaleret by the 
two fugitives.” 

This sentence fell upon the prisoner like a 
thunderbolt; he grew pale, tottered, and leaned 
against the wall to keep himself from falling. 

“Ah! you have told me the truth!” scornfully 
continued the pitiless judge. “Who, then, is 
this man who was waiting for you while you 
were in the Poivriere? Who is this accomplice, 
who, after your arrest, dared to enter the Widow 
Chupin’s hut to regain something compromising 
in its nature — a letter, undoubtedly — which he 
knew he would find in the pocket of the Widow 
Chupin’s apron? Who is this devoted and coura- 
geous friend who feigned drunkenness so effect- 
ually that even the police were deceived, and 
placed him in confinement with you? Dare you 
deny that you have not arranged your system of 
defense in concert with them? Can you affirm 
that he did not give the Widow Chupin counsel 
as to the course she must pursue?” 

But already, thanks to an almost superhuman 
effort, the man had- mastered his agitation. 

“All this,” said he in a harsh voice, “is a 
mere invention of the police!” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


167 


However faithfully one may describe an ex- 
amination of this sort, it gives the reader no 
more idea of the sceije than cold ashes give the 
effect of a glowing fire. 

One can note down the slightest word; but 
one can never portray the repressed animation, 
the impassioned movements, the studied reti- 
cence, the intonation, the glances full of hatred 
and suspicion which encounter each other — in 
short, the terrible anguish of a mortal struggle. 

When the prisoner reeled beneath the power of 
his accusation, the judge trembled with joy. 

“He weakens,” he thought, “he yields — he is 
mine!” 

But all hope of immediate success vanished 
when he saw this redoubtable adversary struggle 
against his momentary weakness, and arm him- 
self for the fight with a renewed and still more 
vigorous energy. 

The judge comprehended that it would require 
more than one assault to overcome such a nature. 

So, in a voice rendered still more harsh by dis- 
appointment, he resumed: “Evidently you are 
determined to deny evidence itself.” 

The murderer had turned to bronze again. He 
must have bitterly regretted his weakness, for a 
fiendish audacity glittered in his eyes. 

“What evidence?”, he demanded, frowning. 
“This romance invented by the police is very 
plausible, I do not deny it ; but it seems to me 
that the truth is quite as probable. You tell me 
of a coachman, who was employed by two small, 
fair- haired women — who can prove that those 
women are the same who fied from this accursed 
hovel?” 

“The police officer followed their tracks upon 
the snow.” 

“At night, across fields cut every now and 
then by ditches, and up a long street, while a 
fine rain was falling and a thaw was beginning! 
That is very probafie!” 


168 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He extended his arm toward Lecoq, and in a 
tone of crushing scorn, he added : 

“A man must have great confidence in him- 
self, or a wild longing for* advancement, to ask 
that a man’s head should be cut off on such evi- 
dence as this!” 

While, the smiling clerk made his pen fly 
across the paper, he said to himself : 

“The arrovr entered the bull’s-eye this time!” 

The reproach did indeed seem just; and it cut 
Lecoq to the quick. He was so incensed that, 
forgetful of the place in which he was, he sprang 
up, furious. 

“This circumstance would be of slight impor- 
tance,” said he, vehemently, “if it were not one 
of a long chain — ” 

“Silence!” interrupted the judge. 

Then turning to the prisoner, he said : 

“The court does not use proofs and testimony 
collected by the police until it has examined and 
weighed them. ” 

“No matter,” murmured the man. “I would 
like to see this coachman.” • 

“Have no fears; he shall repeat his deposition 
in your presence.” 

“Very well. I am satisfied, then. 1 will ask 
him how he can distinguish people’s faces when 
it is as dark as — ” 

He checked himself, enlightened apparently 
by a sudden inspiration. 

“How stupid I am!” he exclaimed. “I lose 
my temper about these people while you know 
all the while who they are. For you know, do 
you not, since the coachman must of course have 
taken them to their homes.” 

M. Segmuller saw that the man understood 
him. He saw, too, that he was endeavoring to 
increase the shadow of doubt and uncertainty 
that overhung the very point upon which the 
prosecution was so anxious to obtain informa- 
tion. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


169 


An incomparable comedian, the man had ut- 
tered these words with an accent of the most 
sincere candor. But the irony was evident, and 
if he sneered, it was because he felt that he had 
nothing to fear from this quarter. 

“If you are consistent,” remarked the judge, 
“you will also deny the existence of an accom- 
plice, of a — comrade.” 

“Of what use would it be to deny it, since 
you believe nothing that I say? You only a 
moment ago insinuated that my former employer 
was an imaginary personage; what shall I say 
of this pretended accomplice? Ah! the agents 
who invented him have made him indeed a faith- 
ful friend. Not content with escaping them 
once, he comes to place himself in their clutches 
for a second time. These gentlemen pretend that 
he conferred first with me, and afterward with 
the Widow Chupin. How did that happen? 
Perhaps, after they took him from the cell in 
which I was confined, they shut him up with the 
old woman,” 

Goquet, the clerk, wrote and admired. 

“Here,” he thought, “is a man of brain, who. 
understands his case, and who will have no need 
of the eloquence of a lawyer in pleading his cause 
before a jury.” 

“And after all,” continued the prisoner, “what 
are the proofs against me? The name Lache- 
neur, faltered by a dying man, some foot-prints 
upon the melting snow, the declaration of a 
coachman, a vague suspicion on the subject of 
a drunken man. Are these all? They do not 
amount to much — ” 

“Enough!” interrupted M. Segmuller. “Your 
assurance is great now, but your embarrassment 
a moment since was even greater. What was 
the cause cf it?” 

“The cause!” exclaimed the prisoner, in a 
sort of rage; “the c. i :e! Can you not see, mon- 
sieur, that you are torturing me frightfully, piti- 


170 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


lessly! I am an innocent man, and you are try- 
ing to deprive me of my life. You have been 
turning me this way and that for so many hours 
that I begin to feel as if I were standing on the 
guillotine; and at each word that I utter, I ask 
myself if this is the one that will make the ax 
fall upon my head. My anxiety and dismay sur- 
prise you, do they, when I have felt the cold 
knife graze my throat at least twenty times? I 
would not desire my worst enemy to be subjected 
to torture like this.” 

He was, indeed, suffering terribly. His hair 
w^s saturated with perspiration, and great drops 
of sweat stood out upon his cheeks and rolled 
from his pallid brow down upon his beard. 

“I am not your enemy,” said the judge, more 
gently. “A judge is neither the friend nor the 
enemy of a prisoner; he is simply the friend of 
truth and of the law. I am not seeking an inno- 
cent man ora culprit; I merely wish to arrive at 
the truth. I must know who you are — and I do 
know.” 

“Ah! — if the assertion costs me my life — I am 
May.” 

“No.” 

“Who am I, then? Some great man in dis- 
guise? Ah ! I would that I were ! In that case, 

I should have satisfactory oapers. I would show 
them to you, and you would*set me free, for you 
know very well, my good sir, that I am as inno- 
cent as yourself.” 

The judge had left his desk, and seated him- 
self by the fireplace, only a caiiole of feet from 
the prisoner. 

“Do not insist,” said he. 

Then suddenly changing both meaner and 
tone, he added, with the urbanity that a man of 
the world displays when addressing an equal: 

“Do me the honor, monsi'^ to believe me 
gifted with sufficient perspijuity to recognize, 
under the difficult role that you play to such per- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


171 


fection, a very superior gentleman — a man en- 
dowed \7ith remarkable talent.” 

Lecoq saw that this sudden change of man- 
ner had unmanned the prisoner. 

He tried to laugh, but the laugh died in his 
throat as mournful as a sob, and tears glittered 
in his eyes. 

“I will not torture you any longer, monsieur,” 
continued the judge. “Upon this ground of sub- 
tle reasoning I confess that you have conquered 
me. When I return to the charge I shall have 
proofs enough in my possession to crush you.” 

He reflected for a moment, then slowly, and 
lingering over each word, he added: 

“Only do not expect from me then the consid- 
eration I have shown you to-day. Justice is hu- 
man, monsieur; that is, she is indulgent to cer- 
tain crimes. She has fathomed the depths of the 
abyss into which blind passion may hurl even an 
honest man. To-day, any assistance that will 
not conflict with my duty I freely offer to you. 
Speak, monsieur. Shall I send away this officer 
of police? Do you wish me to send my clerk out 
of the room upon some errand?” 

He said no more. He waited to see the effect 
of this last, this supreme effort. 

The murderer darted upon him one of those 
glances that penetrate to the depths of one’s in- 
most soul. His lips moved; one might have 
supposed that he was about ifco speak. But no; 
he crossed his arms upon his breast, and mur- 
mured : 

“You are very frank, mc.nsieur. Unfortu- 
nately for me, I am only a poor devil, as I have 
told you ; May, artist — to speak to the public and 
turn a compliment.” 

“I am forced to yield to your decision,” said 
the judge, sadly. “The clerk will now read the 
report of your examination — listen.” 

Goquet read the deposition. 

The prisoner listened without making any re- 


172 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


mark; but when the reading was concluded he 
refused to sign the document, fearing, he said, 
“some hidden treachery.” 

A moment after, the soldiers who had brought 
him there led him away. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

When the prisoner had departed, M. Segmul- 
ler sank back in his arm-chair, weary, exhausted, 
and in that state of nervous prostration which so 
often follows protracted, but fruitless efforts. 

He had scarcely strength to bathe his burning 
forehead and his glittering eyes in cool, refresh- 
ing water. This frightful scene had lasted for 
seven consecutive hours, at least. 

The smiling clerk, who all the while had kept 
his place at his desk, busily writing, rose, glad 
of an opportunity to stretch his limbs and snap 
Qiis fingers, cramped by holding the pen. 

Still, he was not in the least bored. These 
dramas which had been unrolled in his presence 
for so many years, had never ceased to afford 
him a half theatrical interest, increased by the 
uncertainty in which the denouement was shroud- 
ed, and by the consciousness of some slight par- 
ticipation in the affair. 

“What a knave!” he exclaimed, after vainly 
weiting some expression of opinion from the 
judge or from the detective; “what a rascal!” 

Ordinarily, M. Pegmuller accorded some de- 
gree of confidence to the long experience of his 
clerk. He sometimes even went so far as to 
consult him, doubtless somewhat in the same 
style that Moliere consulted his servant. 

But this time he did not accept his opinion. 

“Xo,” said he, in a thoughtful tone, “that 
man is not a knave. When I spoke to him 
kindly, he was really touched; he wept; he hes- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


173 


itated. I would have sworn that he was about 
to confide everything to me.” 

“Ah! he is a remarkable man — a man of won- 
derful power!” said Lecoq. 

The detective was sincere in his praise. Al- 
though the prisoner had disappointed his plans, 
and had even insulted him, he could not help 
admiring his adversary’s shrewdness and cour- 
age. 

He had prepared himself to struggle with this 
man to the death — he hoped to conquer him. 
Nevertheless, in his secret soul Lecoq experienced 
that sympathy which a “foeman worthy of one’s 
steel” always inspires. 

“What coolness, what courage!” continued 
Lecoq. “Ah! there is no denying it, his system 
of defense^ — of absolute denial — st. chef oeuvre. 
It is perfect. And how admirably he sustained 
the different role of buffoon ! Sometimes I could 
scarcely restrain my admiration. What are all 
these famous comedians beside him? The great- 
est actors need the aid of stage scenery to sup- 
port the illusion. This man almost convinced 
me even against my reason.” 

“Do you know what your very just criticism 
proves?” inquired the judge. 

“I am listening, monsieur.” 

“Ah, well! I have arrived at this conclusion 
— either this man is really May, artist^for the 
paying of compliments, as he says — or he belongs 
to the highest rank of society; not to the middle 
classes. It is only in the lowest ranks pr in the 
highest that you encounter such grim energy as 
he has displayed, such scorn of life, as well as 
such remarkable presence of mind and resolu- 
tion. A vulgar bourgeois attracted to the Poi- 
vriere by some shameful passion would have 
confessed it long ago.” 

“But, monsieur, this man is not the buffoon, 
May,” replied the young detective. 

“No, certainly not,” responded M. Segmuller; 


174 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“we must, therefore, decide upon some plan of 
action.” 

He smiled. 'iiindlj^, and added, in a friendly- 
voice : 

“It was unnecessary to tell you that. Monsieur 
Lecoq. Quite unneccessary, since to you be- 
longs the honor of having detected this fraud. 
As for me, I confess, that if I had not been 
warned in advance, I should at this moment be 
the dupe of this clever artist.” 

The young man bowed; a blush of modesty 
tinged his cheeks, but his jdeased vanity sparkled 
in his eyes. 

What a difference between this friendly and 
benevolent judge and that other, so taciturn and 
so haughty. 

This man, at least, understood, appreciated, 
and encouraged him ; and it was with a common 
theory and an equal ardor that they were about 
to devote themselves to a search for the truth. 

These thoughts flitted through Lecoq ’s mind; 
then he reflected that his satisfaction was a trifle 
premature, and that success was still extremely 
doubtful. 

This rather chilling thought restored his cool- 
ness. 

“Monsieur, an idea has just occurred to me,” 
he said, calmly. 

“Let me hear it.” 

“The Widow Chupin, as you undoubtedly rec- 
ollect, alluded to her son, a certain Polyte-^” 

“Yes.” 

“Why not question him? He must know all 
the habitues of the Poivriere and would perhaps 
give us valuable infoi illation regarding Gustave, 
Lacheneur, and the murderer himself. As he is 
not in solitary confinement, he has probably 
heard of his mother’s arrest; but it seems to me 
impossible that he should suspect our present 
perplexity.” 

“Ah! you are a hundred times right!” 


ex- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


175 


claimed the judge. “Why did I not think of 
that myself? Ti3-morrovv morning I will ques- 
tion this man, whose situation renders him less 
likely to have been tampered with than these 
parties. 1 will also question his wife.” 

He turned to his clerk and added : 

“Quick, Goquet, prepare a summons in the 
name of the wife of Hippolyte Chupin, and ad- 
dress an order to the keeper of the depot for her 
husband!” 

But night was coming on. It was already so 
dark that one could not see to write; and the 
clerk rang the bell and asked for a light. Just 
as the messenger who had brought in the lamps 
was leaving the room, some one rapped. The 
door opened, and the keeper of the prison entered 
with his hat in his hand. 

During the past twenty-four hours this worthy 
officer had been greatly exercised in mind on 
account of the mysterious prisoner whom he had 
placed in secret cell No. 3, and he came to* the 
judge for advice. 

“I come to ask if I am to retain the prisoner, 
May, in solitary confinement?” 

“Yes.” 

“I fear his attacks of frenzy, still I dislike to 
confine him in the strait-jacket agaip.” 

“Leave him free in his cell,” replied M. Seg- 
muller, “and tell the keepers to treat him kindly, 
but yet to exercise a constant surveillance over 
him.” 

By the provisions of Article 613, although 
accused parties are confided to the authority of 
the government, the judge is allowed, previous 
to the trial, to adopt such measures concerniag 
them as he may deem necessary for the interests 
of the prosecution. 

The keeper bowed; then he added: 

“You have doubtless succeeded in establishing 
the identity of this prisoner?” 

“Unfortunately, I have not.” 


176 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The keeper shook his head with a knowing 
air. 

“In that case, my conjectures were correct,” 
said he. “It seems to me more than sufficiently 
demonstrated that this man is a malefactor of 
the worst sort — an old offender, certainly, and 
one who has the strongest interest in concealing 
his identity. You will find that you have to 
deal with a man who has been sentenced to the 
galleys for life, and who has managed to make 
his escape from Cayenne.” 

“Perhaps you are mistaken.” 

“Hum! I shall be greatly surprised if I dis- 
cover that I am. I must admit that my opinion 
in this matter corresponds exactly with that of 
M. Gevrol, the most experienced and the most 
skillful of our inspectors. I agree with him in 
thinking that young detectives are often over- 
zealous, and run after phantoms originated in 
their own brains.” 

Lecoq, crimson with wrath, was about to 
make an angry response, when M. Segmuller, 
with a gesture, imposed silence. 

It was the judge who, with a smile, replied to 
the keeper: 

“Upon my word, my dear friend,” he said, 
“the more I study this affair, the more convinced 
I am of the correctness of the theory advanced 
by the ‘too zealous detective.’ But, after all, I 
am not infallible, and I shall depend upon your 
counsel and assistance.” 

“Oh! Ihavemeansof verifying mj^ assertion,” 
interrupted the keeper; “and I hope before the 
end of the next twenty-four hours that our man 
will have been identified, either by the police or 
by some one of his fellow-prisoners.” 

With these words he took his leave, and Le- 
coq sprang up, furious. 

“You see that this Gevrol already speaks ill 
of me; he is jealous.” 

“Ah, well! what does that matter to you? If 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 177 

you succeed, you will have your revenge. If 
you are mistaken — I am mistaken, too.” 

And then, as it was already late, M. Segmul- 
ler confided to Lecoq’s keeping the articles which 
the latter had accumulated in support of his the- 
ory. He also placed in his hands the diamond 
ear-ring, whose owner must be discovered, then 
the letter signed Lacheneur, which had been 
found in the pocket of the dead soldier. 

He gave him several commissions, and, after 
requesting him to make his appearance promptly 
on the morrow, he dismissed him with these 
words: “How go; and good luck attend you!” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Long, narrow, low of ceiling, and pierced by 
many small, numbered doors, like the corridor 
of a hotel, its sole furniture an immense oaken 
desk, blackened by age — such is the galerie d’in- 
struction in the Palais de Justice. 

Even in the daytime, when it is thronged with 
prisoners, witnesses, and guards, it is a sad and 
gloomy place. 

But it is sinister of aspect at night, when de- 
serted, and only dimly lighted by the smoking 
lamp of the door-keeper, who is waiting for the 
departure of some judge whom business has de- 
tained later than usual. 

Although Lecoq was not sensitive to such in- 
fluences, he made haste to reach the staircase 
and escape the echo of his own steps, which 
resounded drearily in the silence and darkness 
that pervaded the corridor. 

On »the floor below a window was standing 
open, and the young man leaned out to ascertain 
the state of the weather. 

The temperature v/as much milder; the snow 
had disappeared entirely, and the pavements 


178 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


were almost dry. A slight haze, illumined by 
the red glare of the street lamps, hung like a pur- 
ple mantle over the city. 

The streets below were gay and animated; car- 
riages were rolling rapidly to and fro, and the 
pavements were too narrow for the bustling 
crowd, which, now that the labors of the day 
were ended", was hastening in pursuit of its 
pleasures. 

This spectacle drew a sigh from the young 
detective. 

“And it is in this great city, in the midst of 
this world of people, that I must discover the 
traces of an unknown person ! Is it possible to 
do this?” 

But this feeling of discouragement did not en- 
dure long. 

“Yes, it is possible,” cried an inward voice, 
“besides, it rnust be done; your future depends 
upon it. What one wills, one can do.” 

Ten seconds later he was in the street, more 
than ever inflamed with hope and courage. 

To act as the servants of boundless desires, 
man has, unfortunately, only organs of limited 
power. The young man had not advanced twenty 
steps before he realized the fact that his physical 
powers would not obey the command of his will. 
His limbs trembled; his head whirled. Nature 
asserted her rights; for two days and nights 
Lecoq had taken scarcely a moment’s rest, and 
he had eaten nothing that day. 

“Am I going to be ill?” he thought, sinking 
down upon a beqch. 

And he groaned inwardly, on recapitulating 
all that he wished to do that evening. 

Must he not (to mention only the most im- 
portant) ascertain the results of Father Ab- 
sinthe’s search after the man who had recog- 
nized one of the victims in the morgue; must 
he not verify in the hotels which surround the 
northern depot the assertions made by the pris- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


179 


oner ; and last, but not least, must he not pro- 
cure the address of Polyte Chupin’s wife, in 
order to serve the summons upon her? 

Under the power of urgent necessity, he suc- 
ceeded in triumphing over his weakness, and he 
rose, murmuring: “I will go to the prefecture, 
and to the morgue; then I will see.” 

Bat he did not find Father Absinthe at the 
prefecture, and no one could give any tidings of 
him. The good man had not made his appear- 
ance there at all during the day. 

Nor could any one indicate, even vaguely, the 
abode of the Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law. 

But he met a number of his colleagues, who 
laughed and jeered at him unmercifully. 

“Ah! you are a shrewd one!” — all whom he 
met said to him — “it seems that jmu have just 
made a wonderful discover}^ ! They talk of dec- 
oratin'g you with the cross.” 

Gevrol’s infiuence betrayed itself everywhere. 
The angry inspector had taken pains to inform 
each newcomer that this poor Lecoq, crazed by 
ambition, persisted in declaring that a low, vul- 
gar fugitive from justice was some great per- 
sonage. 

But these jeers had but little effect upon the 
young man. “He laughs best, who laughs last,” 
he muttered. 

If he was restless and anxious as he walked 
up the Quai des Orfevres, it was only because 
he could not explain the prolonged absence of 
Father Absinthe, and because he wondered if 
Gevrol, in his mad jealousy, would not attempt, 
in an underhand way, to entangle all the threads 
of this business still more. 

At the morgue he met with no better success. 
After ringing three or four times, one of the 
guard who came to open the door informed him 
that the bodies had not been identified, and that 
the old policeman had not been seen since he left 
there early in the morning. 


180 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“This is a bad begianing,” thought Lecoq. 
“I will go and get some dinner — that will, per- 
haps, change the luck; and I have certainly- 
earned the bottle of good wine to which I intend 
to treat myself . ” 

It was a happy thought. Some dinner and a 
couple of glasses of Bordeaux sent new courage 
and energy coursing through his veins. If he 
still felt weary, the sensation was greatly dimin- 
ished when he left the restaurant with a cigar 
between his lips. 

Just at that moment he longed for the car- 
riage and the good horse of Father Papillon. 
Fortunately, a fiacre was passing; he hired it, 
and as the clock struck eight he alighted at the 
square near the northern depot. He looked about 
a little first, then he began his search. 

It must be understood that he did not present 
himself in his official capacity. That would be 
a sure way of learning nothing. 

By brushing back his hair and turning up his 
coat 'collar, he made a very considerable altera- 
tion in his appearance; and it was with a very 
pronounced English accent that he asked infor- 
mation concerning a “foreign workman.” 

But vainly he employed all his address in ques- 
tioning parties; everywhere he received the 
same response: 

“We do not know such a person; we have not 
seen any one answering this description.” 

Any other reply would have astonished Le- 
coq, so strongly persuaded was he that the pris- 
oner had only related this incident of a trunk 
left at one of these hotels in order to give a sem- 
blance of truth to his narrative. 

Still he continued his investigation. If he 
noted upon his memorandum book all the hotels 
he had visited, it was only because he wished to 
make sure of the discomfiture of the prisoner 
when they brought him here to prove the truth 
of his story. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


181 


At last he reached the Hotel de Mariembourg, 
on the corner of the Rue de St. Quentin. 

The house was modest in its proportions; but 
seemed respectable and well-kept. Lecoq pushed 
open the glass doors furnished with a spring 
bell, that opened into the vestibule, and entered 
the office — a neat room, brightly lighted. 

There was a woman in the office. She was 
standing upon a chair, her face on a level with 
a large bird-cage, covered with a piece of black 
silk; and she was repeating three or four Ger- 
man words with great earnestness to the occu- 
paot of the cage. 

She was so engrossed in this occupation that 
Lecoq was obliged to make considerable noise 
before he could attract her attention. 

As she turned, he said: “Ah! good-evening, 
madame; you are much interested, I see, in 
teaching your parrot to talk.” 

“It is not a parrot that I have here,” replied 
the woman, who had not yet descended from her 
perch; “it is a starling. I am trying to teach it 
to say in German: ‘Have you breakfasted?’ ” 

“What! can starlings talk?” 

“As well as persons. Yes, monsieur,” said 
the woman, jumping down from her chair. 

Just then the bird, as if it had understood the 
question, cried very distinctly: 

“Camille! Where is Camille?” 

But Lecoq was too anxious to bestow much 
attention upon the bird. 

“Madame,” he began, “I wish to speak to the 
proprietor of this hotel.” 

“I am the proprietor.” 

“Oh! very well. I was expecting a mechanic 
— from Leipsic, to meet me here in Paris. To 
my great surprise, he has not made his appear- 
ance; and I came to inquire if he was stopping 
here? His name is May.” 

“May!” repeated the hostess, thoughtfully. 
“May!” 


182 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“He ought to have arrived last Sunday even- 
ing.” 

The woman’s face brightened. 

“Wait a moment,” said she. “Was this 
friend a middle-aged man, of medium size, of 
very dark complexion — v/earing a full beard, and 
having very bright eyes?” 

Lecoq trembled. This was a perfect descrip- 
tion of the murderer. “Yes,” he stammered, 
“that is a very good portrait of the man.” 

“Ah, well! Monsieur, he came here on the 
afternoon of Shrove Sunday. He asked for a 
cheap room, and I showed him one on the fifth 
floor. The office boy was not here at the time, 
and he insisted upon taking his trunk upstairs 
himself. I offered him some refreshments; but 
he declined to take anything, on account of being 
in a great hurry; and he went away after giving 
me ten francs as sec urity for his room-rent. ’ ’ 

“Where is he?” inquired the young detective. 

Dieu! monsieur, that reminds me,” re- 
plied the woman. “This man has not returned, 
and I have been very anxious about him. Paris 
is such a dangerous place for strangers! It is 
true he spoke French as well as you or I; but 
what of that? Last evening I gave orders that 
the commissioner of police should be informed of 
the matter.” 

“Yesterday — the commissioner !” 

“Yes. Still, I do not know whether the boy 
did the errand. I had forgotten all about it. 
Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask him.” 

A bucket of ice water falling upon the head of 
the detective could not have astonished him more 
than this announcement from the proprietress of 
the Hotel de Mariembourg. 

Had the murderer indeed told the truth? 
Could it be possible? Gevrol and the keeper of 
the prison were right, then? And M. Segmul- 
ler, and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing 
a phantom. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


183 


All this flashed like lightning through the 
brain of the detective. 

But he had no time for reflection. The boy 
who had been summoned made his appearance^ — 
a big, overgrown boy— with a frank, chubby 
face. 

“Fritz,” demanded his mistress, “did you go 
to the office of the commissioner?” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“What did he say?” 

“He was not in; but I spoke to his secretary, 
M. Casimir, who told me to tell you not to worry 
yourself, that the man would return.” 

“He has not returned.” 

The boy raised his arms, with that movement 
of the shoulders which is the most eloquent trans- 
lation of that response : 

“What would you have me do about it?” 

“You hear, sir,” said the hostess, apparently 
thinking the importunate questioner would with- 
draw. 

Such, however, was not the intention of Le- 
coq, and he did not move, though he had need 
of all his self-possession to retain his English 
accent. 

“This is very annoying,” said he, “very! I 
am even more anxious and undecided than I was 
before, since I am not certain that this is the 
man I am seeking.” 

• “But, sir, what more can I tell you?” 

Lecoq reflected for a moment, knitting his 
brows and biting his lips, as if he were trying to 
invent some means of solving the mystery. 

The fact is, he was seeking some adroit cir- 
cumlocution by which he could propose that this 
woman should show him the register in which 
all guests are compelled to inscribe their full 
names, their profession, and their residence; but 
he feared to arouse her suspicions. 

“But, madame, can you not remember the 
name which this man gave you? Was it May? 


184 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Try to recollect if that was the name — May— 
May!” 

“Ah! I have so many things to remember.” 

“It would be a great convenience if each guest 
were required to inscribe his name in a register, 
as is the custom in England.” 

“But they do register,” replied the woman. 
“I have a book for that purpose, in which a 
whole column is allotted to each guest. And 
now I think of it; I could, if it would oblige 
you, show you my book. It is there, in the 
drawer of my secretary. Well, now! what can 
I have done with my key?” 

And while the hostess, who seemed to possess 
but little more intelligence than her bird, was 
turning the whole office upside down in her 
search for the key, Lecoq scrutinized her closely. 

She was about forty years of age, with an 
abundance of light hair, and a very fair com- 
plexion. She was well-preserved — that is to say, 
she was plump and healthy in appearance; her 
glance was frank and unembarrassed; her voice 
was clear and musical, and her manners were 
pleasing, .and entirely free from affectation. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “I have found the 
miserable key at last. ’ ’ 

She opened her desk, took the register, which 
she laid upon the table, and began turning over 
the leaves. At last she found the desired page. 

“Sunday, February 20th,” said she. “Look, 
monsieur, here on the seventh line — May — no 
Christian name — foreign artist — coming . from 
Leipsic — without papers. ’ ’ 

While Lecoq was examining this record with 
a dazed air, the woman exclaimed : 

“Ah! now I can explain how it happened that 
I forgot this name— May, and this strange pro- 
fession — foreign artist. I did not write it mv- 
self.” 

“Who did write it, then?” 

“The man himself, while I was finding tfen 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


185 


francs to give him as change for the louis he 
handed me. You can see that the writing is not 
at all like that in which the names above and be- 
low are recorded.” 

Yes, Lecoqhad observed that fact; and it was 
an irrefutable argument, as sure and as strong 
as a blow from a cudgel. 

“Are yCu sure,*” he insisted, “that this record 
is in the man’^ handwriting? Would you swear 
it?” 

In his anxiety he had forgotten his foreign 
accent. The woman noticed this at once, for 
she drew back and cast a suspicious glance at 
the pretended stranger. Then defiance and anger 
at having been duped seemed to take possession 
of her. 

“I know what I am saying,” she said, indig- 
nantly. “And now this is enough, is it not?” 

Knowing that he had betrayed himself, and 
thoroughly ashamed of his lack of coolness, Le- 
coq renounced his Englisji accent altogether. 

“Pardon me,” he said, “if I ask one more 
question. Have you this man’s trunk in your 
possession?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Ah! you would do me an immense service 
by showing it to rne.” 

“Show it to you!” exclaimed the fair- haired 
hostess, angrily. “What do you take me for? 
What •do you want? and who are you?” 

“In a half hour you shall know,” replied the 
detective, realizing that further persuasion would 
be useless. 

He hastily left the room, ran to the Place de 
Robaux, leaped into a carriage, and giving the 
driver the address of the commissioner of poiiee 
for that district, promised him a hundred sous 
over and above the regular fare if he would make 
haste. As might have been expected under such 
circumstances, the poor horses fairly flew under 
the stroke of the whip. 


186 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Lecoq was fortunate enough to find the com- 
missioner at home. The detective made known 
his business, and was immediately ushered into 
the presence of the magistrate. 

“Ah! sir,” he cried, “will you assist me?” 

And in a breath he told his story. 

When it was concluded : 

“It is really true that they came to inform me 
of this man’s disappearance,” said the judge. 
“Casimirtold me about it this morning.” 

“They — came — to inform — you — ” faltered 
Lecoq. 

“Yes, yesterday; but I have had so much to 
occupy my time. Now, my boy, how can I serve 
you?” 

“Come with me, sir; compel them to show us 
the trunk, and send for a locksmith to open it. 
Here is the authority — a search-warrant given 
me by the judge to use in case of necessity. Lot 
us lose no time. I have a carriage at the door. ” 

“We will start at once,” said the commis- 
sioner. 

When they had entered the fiacre^ which 
started off at a gallop : 

“Now, sir,” said the young detective, “per- 
mit me to ask if you know this woman who 
keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg?” 

“Yes, indeed, I know her very well. When I 
was first appointed to this district, six years 
ago, I was not married, and for a long time I 
took my meals at this lady’s table d'hote. Cas- 
imir, my secretary, boards there yet.” 

“And what kind of a woman is she?” 

“Why, upon my word, my young friend, Mme. 
Milner— for such is her name — is a very respect- 
able widow (esteemed and much beloved in this 
neighborhood) who has a very prosperous busi- 
ness, and who remains a widow only from 
choice, for she is extremely agreeable and has 
plenty of suitors.” 

“Then you do not think her capable, for the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


187 


sake of a good rouad sum, of — what shall I say? 
— of serving some very rich culprit — ” 

“Have you gone mad?” interrupted the com- 
missioner. “Mme. Milner consent to testify 
falsely for the sake of money! Have I not just 
told you that she is an honest woman, and that 
she has a very comfortable fortune ! Besides, she 
informed me yesterday that this man was miss- 
ing, so — ” 

Lecoq made no reply; they had reached their 
destination. 

On seeing her obstinate questioner reappear, 
accompanied by the oommissioner, Mme. Milner 
seemed to understand it all. 

“ JfoTi DieuV she exclaimed, “a detective! I 
might have known it! Some crime has been 
committed ; and now my hotel has lost its repu- 
tation forever!” 

It took quite a long time to reassure and con- 
sole her ; all the time that was required to find a 
locksmith. 

At last they went up to the room of the miss- 
ing man, and Lecoq sprang to the trunk. 

Ah! there was no denying it. It* had, indeed, 
come from Leipsic; the little slips of paper 
pasted upon it by the different railroad com- 
panies proved it. They opened it and found the 
articles mentioned by the prisoner. 

Lecoq was petrified. With an almost stupe- 
fied air he watched the commissioner as he locked 
everything up in a cupboard and took possession 
of the key; then he felt that he could endure no 
more. He left the room with downcast head; 
and they heard him stumble like a drunken man 
as he descended the stairs. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuc.3di7, was very 
ga/ that year; that is to say, the pawnbrokers’ 
tb/ and the public balls were crowded. 


18S 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


When Lecoqleffc the Hotel de Mariembourg 
about midnight, the streets were as full as if it 
were noon-day, and the cafes were thronged with 
customers. 

But the young man had no heart for gayety. 
He mingled with the crowd without seeing it, 
and jostled groups of people chatting on the cor- 
ners, without hearing the imprecations occa- 
sioned by his awkwardness. 

Where was he going? He had no idea. He 
walked on aimlessly, more inconsolable and des- 
perate than the gambler who has staked his last 
hope with his last louis — and lost. 

“I must yield,” he murmured; “this evidence 
is conclusive. My presumptions were only chi- 
meras; my deductions, the playthings of chance! 
There only remains for me now to withdraw, 
with the least possible damage and ridicule, 
from the false position I have assumed.” 

Just as he reached the boulevard, a new idea 
entered his brain, startling him so much that he 
could scarcely restrain a cry. 

“I am a fool I” he exclaimed, striking his 
hand violently against his forehead. 

“Is it possible,” he continued, “that I am so 
strong in theory, yet so ridiculously weak in 
practice. Ah! I am only a child, yet, a novice, 
disheartened by the slightest obstacle. I meet 
some difficulty. I lose courage and even the 
power to reason. Now let me reflect calmly. 

“What did I tell the judge al out this man, 
whose plan of -defense so puzzles \.s? 

“Did I not tell him that we had to deal with 
a man of superior talent — with a man of con- 
summate penetration, and experience — a bold, 
courageous man, who possesses ah imperturba- 
ble coolness, and who will do anything to insure 
the success of his plans? 

“Yes; I told him all this, and, yet, I give up 
in despair as soon as I meet a single circum- 
stance that I cannot explain at once. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


189 


“It is evident, then, that this prisoner would 
not be likely to resort to old and hackneyed 
methods, and commonplace expedients. Ought 
not I to expect that it would require time, pa- 
tience, and research to find a flaw in his defense? 

“Consequently, the more appearances are 
against my presumptions, and in favor of the 
story told by the prisoner, the more certain it is 
that I am right — or logic is no longer logic.” 

But the young man burst into a hearty laugh, 
and added : 

“But to expose this theory at headquarters be- 
fore Gevrol would perhaps be premature, and 
would win me a certificate entitling me to ad- 
mission into the lunatic asylum.” 

He paused; he had reached his lodgings. He 
rang the bell ; some one opened the door. 

He groped his way slowly up to the fourth 
floor; he reached his room, and was about to 
enter, when a voice in the darkness called out: 

“Is that you, Monsieur Lecoq?” 

“It is I,” replied the young man, somewhat 
surprised, “but who are you?” 

“I am Father Absinthe.” 

“Upon my word ! Well, you are welcome! I 
did not recognize your voice — will you come in?” 

They entered, and Lecoq lit a candle. Then 
the young man could see his colleague, and, 
good heavens! v/hat a condition he was in! 

He was as dirty and spattered with mud as a 
lost dog which had been wandering about in the 
rain and mire for three or four days. His over- 
coat bore traces of frequent contact with damp 
walls; his hat had lost its form entirely. His 
eyes were anxious; his mustache drooped de- 
spond in gly. He mumbled his words as if his 
mouth were full of sand. 

“Do you bring me bad news?” inquired Le- 
coq, after a short examination of his companion. 

“Bad.” 

“The people you were following escaped you, 


190 MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

then?” The old man nodded his head in the 
affirmative. 

“It is unfortunate — very unfortunate!” said 
Lecoq. “But it is useless to distress ourselves 
about it. Do not be so cast down,* Father Ab- 
sinthe. To-morrow, between us, we will repair 
the damages.” 

This friendly encouragement redoubled the old 
man’s evident embarrassment. He flushed, this 
veteran, like a school-girl, and raising his hands 
toward heaven, he exclaimed : 

“Ah, wretch! did I not tell you so?” 

“Why! what is the matter with you?” in- 
quired Lecoq. 

Father Absi n the mad e no reply ; he approached 
the mirror and began heaping the most cruel in- 
sults upon the reflection of his features therein. 

“Old good-for-nothing!” heexclaimed. “Vile 
soldier! have you no shame left? You were in- 
trusted with a mission, were you not? And how 
have you fulfllled it? You have drank, wretch, 
until you drank awaj^ your senses like an old sot 
as you are. This shall not be passed over thus; 
and even if M. Lecoq forgives me, you shall not 
taste another drop for a week. You shall suffer 
for this escapade.” 

“Come, come,” said Lecoq, “you can sermon- 
ize by and by. How tell me your story.” 

“Ah! I am not proud of it. I beg you to be- 
lieve that; but never mind. Doubtless you re- 
ceived the letter in which I told you that I was 
going to follow the young men who seemed to 
recognize Gustave?” 

“Yes, yes — go on!” 

“ Well, as soon as they entered the ca/e, into 
which I had followed them, the young men be- 
gan drinking, probably to drive away their emo- 
tion. After drinking, hunger apparently seized 
them, for they ordered breakfast. In my corner 
I followed their example. The repast, the coflee 
and beer all took time. Two hours elapsed be- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


191 


fore they were ready to pay their bill and go. 
Good ! I supposed they would now return to their 
homes — not at all. They walked down to the 
Rue Dauphin; and I saw them enter a coffee- 
house or smoking-room. Five minutes later I 
glided in after them; they were already engaged 
in a game of billiards.” 

He hesitated ; it was not easy to tell the rest of 
his story. 

“I seated myself at a little table, and asked 
for a newspaper. I was reading with one eye, 
and watching them with the other, when a 
worthy bourgeois entered and took a seat beside 
me. As soon as he had seated himself he asked 
ma to give him the paper when I had finished 
reading it. I handed it to him, and then we be- 
gan talking of the weather. At last he proposed 
a game of bezique. I declined, and we after- 
ward compromised, on a game of piquet. The 
young men, you understand, were still knocking 
the balls about. We began playing, the stakes 
a glass of brandy for each. I won. The bour- 
geois demanded his revenge, and we played two 
more games. Still I won. He insisted upon 
another game, and again I won, and still I drank 
— and drank again — ” 

“Go on, go on.” 

“Ah! here is the rub. After that I can re- 
member nothing — neither of the bourgeois nor 
of the young men. It seems to me, however, 
that I recollect falling asleep in the ca/e, and a 
waiter coming to wake me and tell me to go. 
Then I must have wandered about on the quays 
until I came to my senses, and decided to come 
and wait upon your stairs until you returned.” 

To the great surprise of Father Absinthe, Le- 
coq seemed rather thoughtful than angry. 

' “What do you think about this bourgeois, 
papa?” inquired Lecoq. 

“I think that he was following me when I was 
following the others, and that he entered the 


192 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


cafe with the intention of getting me intoxi- 
cated.” 

“Give me a description of him.” 

“He was a tall and rather stout man, with a 
broad, red face, a flat nose; and he was very un- 
pretending and affable in manner. ” 

“It was he!” exclaimed Lecoq. 

“He! Who?” 

“The accomplice — the man whose foot- prints 
we discovered — the pretended drunkard — a devil 
incarnate, who will get the best of us yet, if we 
do not keep our eyes open. Do not forget him, 
papa; and if you ever meet him again — ” 

But Father Absinthe’s confession was not 
ended. Like most devotees, he had reserved 
the worst sin for the last. 

“This is not all,” he resumed; “and I wish to 
conceal nothing from you. It seems to me that 
this traitor talked with me about the affair at 
the Poivriere, and that I told him all that we 
had discovered, and all that we intended to do.” 

Lecoq made such a threatening gesture that 
the old man drew back in consternation. 

“Wretched man!” he exclaimed, “to betray 
our plans to the enemy!” 

But he soon regained his calmness. At first, 
the evil seemed to be beyond remedy ; then he 
discovered that it had a good side, after all. It 
removed all the doubts he had felt after his visit 
to the Hotel de Mariembourg. 

“But this is not the time for deliberation,” 
resumed the young detective. “I am overcome 
with fatigue; take a mattress from the bed for 
yourself, my friend, and let us go to rest.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Lecoq was a thoughtful man. Before going 
to bed he took good care to wind an alarm-clock 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 193 

that stood in his room, setting the alarm at six 
o’clock. 

“So that we shall not miss the coach,” he re- 
marked to his companion, as he blew out the 
candle. 

But he had not made allowance for his extreme 
weariness, and for the fumes of alcohol with 
which his friend’s breath was redolent. 

When the clock of Saint Eustache pealed forth 
the hour of six, the alarm-clock performed its 
duty faithfully ; but the shrill sound of the in- 
genious mechanism was not sufficiently loud to 
disturb the heavy sleep of the two men. 

They would probably have slept some time • 
longer, if, at half-past seven o’clock, two vig- 
orous blows of the fist had not resounded on their 
door. 

With one bound Lecoq was out of bed, amazed 
at seeing the bright sunlight, and furious at the 
uselessness of his precautions. 

“Come in!” he cried to his early visitor. 

The young detect! ve had no enemies at that 
time, and he could, without danger, sleep with 
his door unlocked. 

The door opened, and the shrewd face of Fa- 
ther Papillon appeared. 

“Ah! it is my worthy coachman!” exclaimed 
Lecoq. “Is there anything new?” 

“Excuse me, friend; it is the old cause that 
brings me here. You know — the thirty francs 
those wretched women paid me — I shall not sleep 
in peace till I have carried you free, until your 
regular fare would be equal to that amount. 
You made use of my carriage yesterday, one 
hundred sous’ worth, and so I still owe you 
twenty-five francs’ worth of riding.” 

“This is all nonsense, my friend!” 

“Possibly; but I am responsible for it. I have 
sworn if you will not use my carriage to station 
myself and my vehicle before your door for 
eleven hours. At two francs and twenty-five 


194 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


centimes an hour, eleven hours would release 
me from my indebtedness. We should be even. 
Now, make up your mind.” 

He gazed at Lecoq beseechingly; it was evi- 
dent that a refusal would wound him keenly. 

“Very well,” replied Lecoq; “I will take your 
carriage for the morning, only I ought to warn 
you that we are starting on a long journey.” 

“Cocotle’s legs may be relied upon.” 

“My companion and myself have business in 
your quarter of the city. It is absolutely neces- 
sary for us to find the Widow Chupin’s daugh- 
ter-in-law; and I hope we shall be able to obtain 
her address from the commissioner of that dis- 
trict.” 

“Very well, we will go wherever you wish; I 
am at your orders. ’ ’ 

A few moments later they were on their way. 

Papillon, proudly erect upon his box, cracked 
his whip; and the vehicle tore along as rapidly 
as if the driver had been promised a hundred 
sous as pour-boire. 

Father Absinthe alone was sad. He had been 
forgiven, but he could, not forgive himself, that 
he, an old policeman, should have been duped 
like some ignorant provincial. If only he had 
not confided the secret plans of the prosecution ! 

He knew but too well that by this act he had 
increased the difficulties of their task twofold. 

Their long drive was not fruitless. The sec- 
retary of the commissioner of police for the thir- 
teenth district informed Lecoq that the wife of 
Polyte Chupin, with her child, lived in the sub- 
urbs, in the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles. He 
could not tell the precise number; but he de- 
scribed the house, and gave them some informa- 
tion concerning its occupants. 

The Widow Chupin’s daughter-in-law was a 
native of Auvergne; and she had been bit ter i}' 
punished for preferring a Parisian to a compa- 
triot. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


195 


She came to Paris when about twelve years of 
age and obtained employment in a large factory. 
At the end of ten years of privation and con- 
stant toil, she had amassed, penny by penny, the 
sum of three thousand francs. Then her evil 
genius threw Polyte Chupin in her path. 

She fell in love with this dissipated and selfish 
rascal; and he married her for her .little hoard. 

As long as the money lasted, that is, for about 
three or four months, everything went on pleas- 
antly. But as soon as the last shilling was gone, 
Polyte left her, and, with delight, resumed his 
former life of idleness, thievery, and debauchery. 

After this he returned to his wife, only in 
order to steal from her, when he suspected that 
she had saved a little money. And, periodically, 
she uncomplainingly allowed him to despoil her 
of the last penny of her earnings. 

He wished to degrade her still more, for he 
hungered even for the price of her shame; but 
she resisted. 

By this resistance she had excited the hatred 
of the old Widow Chupin — hatred which mani- 
fested itself in such ill-treatment that the poor 
woman was forced to flee one night, with only 
the rags that covered her. 

The mother and the son believed, perhaps, that 
starvation would effect what their threats and 
counsel had failed to accomplish. 

Their shameful expectations had not been 
gratified . 

The secretary added that these facts had be- 
come widely known, and that everybody did 
justice to the worth of the brave woman. 

Hence the sobriquet which had been given her 
— Toinon, the virtuous — a rather coarse, but 
sincere tribute to her worth. 

Grateful for this information, Lecoq re-en- 
tered the carriage. 

The Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, to which 
Papillon was rapidly conducting them, did not 


196 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


bear much resemblance to the Boulevard Male- 
sherbes. Was it the abode of millionaires? One 
would not suppose it. One thing is certain, 
however: all the inhabitants knew one another 
as they do in a village, and the first person of 
whom Lecoq asked information concerning Ma- 
dame Polyte Chupin relieved him of all embar- 
rassment. 

“Toinon, the virtuous, lives in that house on 
the right,” was the answer; “on the upper floor, 
the door facing you.” 

The directions were so precise that Lecoq and 
Father Absinthe went straight to the room they 
were seeking. 

It was a cold and gloomy attic room, of me- 
dium size, and lighted by a small skylight. 

A pallet of straw, a broken table, two chairs, 
and a few plain kitchen utensils, formed the sole 
furniture of the apartment. 

But, in spite of the evident poverty, every- 
thing shone with neatness; and one could have 
eaten off the floor, to use Father Absinthe’s for- 
cible expression. 

The two officers entered, and found a woman 
engaged in making heavy linen sacks. She was 
seated in the center of the room, directly under 
the window, so that the light would fall upon 
her work. 

At the sight of two strangers, she half rose, 
surprised, and perhaps a little frightened; but 
when they explained that they desired a few mo- 
ments’ conversation with her, she gave up her 
own seat, to offer it to them. 

But Father Absinthe insisted that she should 
sit down again, and he remained standing, while 
Lecoq took possession of the other chair. 

In a single glance Lecoq took an inventory of 
the humble abode, and, so to speak, appraised 
the woman. 

She was short, stout, and extremely ordinary 
in appearance. A forest of coarse, black hair. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


197 


growing very low on the forehead, and large 
black eyes set very close together, imparted to 
her countenance something of the patient resig- 
nation one sees in the faces of ill-treated animals. 

Possibly, in former days, she had possessed 
what we call the beauty du diahle; but now she 
looked almost as old as her mother-in-law. 

Sorrow and privation, excessive toil, nights 
spent in labor, tears and the blows she had 
received, had made her complexion livid — had 
reddened her eyes and made deep furrows about 
her temples. 

Still her whole person exhaled a perfume of 
native honesty which had not been tainted, even 
by the foul atmosphere in which she had lived. 

Her child did not resemble her in the least. 
He was pale, and puny in appearance; his eyes 
burned with a phosphorescent brilliancy; and 
his hair was of that faded yellow tint that they 
call blonde in Paris. 

One little circumstance attracted the attention 
of both officers. The mother was attired in a 
very old and faded calico dress; but the child 
was warmly clad in warm woolen material. 

“Madame, you have doubtless heard of a great 
crime, committed in your mother-in-law’s estab- 
lishment,” began Lecoq gently. 

“Alas! yes, monsieur.” 

Then she quickly added : 

“But my husband could not have been impli- 
cated in it, since he is in prison.” 

Did not this objection, which preceded sus- 
picion, betray the most horrible apprehensions? 

“Yes, I am aware of that,” replied her visi- 
tor.' “Polyte was arrested a fortnight ago — ” 

“Yes, and very unjustly, monsieur. I could 
swear it. He was, as is often the case, led 
astray by his companions, wicked, desperate 
men. He is so weak when he has taken a glass 
of wine, they can do whatsoever they will with 
him. If he were left to himself, he would not 


198 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


harm a child. One has only to look at hina — ” 
As she spoke, she turned her red and swollen 
eyes to a miserable photograph hanging upon 
the wall. The picture represented a frightfully 
ugly, dissipated-looking young man, with a ter- 
rible squint, a repulsive mouth, only partially 
concealed by a faint mustache, and his hair care- 
fully plastered down about the temples. This 
was Polyte. 

Yet there was no mistaking the fact that this 
unfortunate woman loved him — had always loved 
him; besides, he* was her husband. 

A moment’s silence followed this act, which 
revealed the existence of passion so clearly; and 
during the silence the door of the room was 
opened softly. 

A man put in his head and withdrew it in- 
stantly, with a low exclamation. Then the door 
closed again, the key grated in the lock, and they 
heard hurried steps descending the staircase. 

Lecoq was sitting with his back to the door, 
and could not see the face of the visitor. 

And yet he had turned so quickly at the sound, 
and he understood the whole affair so well that 
he was not surprised at all. 

Indeed, he did not feel the shadow of a doubt. 

“It is he, the accomplice!” he cried. 

Thanks to his position. Father Absinthe had 
seen the man’s face. 

“Yes,” said he, “yes, I recognized the man 
who made me drink with him yesterday.” 

With a bound the two men threw themselves 
against the door, exhausting their strength in 
vain efforts to open it. It resisted all their. at- 
tempts, for it was of solid oak, having been pur- 
chased by the proprietor of the house from some 
one of the public buildings in process of demoli- 
tion, and it was furnished with a strong and 
massive fastening. 

“Help us !” cried Father Absinthe to the 
woman, who stood petrified with astonishment; 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 199 

“give US an iron bar, a piece of iron, a nail— 
anything!” 

The younger man was making frantic efforts 
to push back the bolt, or to tear the lock from 
the wood. He was wild with rage. 

At last they succeeded in forcing it open, and 
the two m6n, animated by an equal ardor, dashed 
out in pursuit of their mysterious adversary. 

When they reached the street, they made in- 
quiries of the bystanders. They could give a 
description of the man, and that was something. 
Two persons had seen him enter the house of 
Toinon, the virtuous; a third had seen him 
when he ran out. Some children who were play- 
ing on the street assured them that this individ- 
ual had run in the direction of the Rue du Mou- 
lin-des-Pres as fast as his legs could carry him. 

It was in this street, near the corner of the 
Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, that Lecoq had 
ordered his coachman to stop. 

“Let us hasten there!” proposed Father Ab- 
sinthe; “perhaps Papillon can give us some in- 
formation.” 

But his companion shook his head despond- 
ently, and would go no further. 

“What good would it do?” he asked. “The 
presence of mind that made this man think to 
turn the key has saved him. He is at least ten 
minutes in advance of us; by this time he is far 
away, and we should not overtake him.” 

Father Absinthe was livid with anger. He 
now regarded as a personal enemy this adroit ac- 
complice who had so cruelly duped him; and he 
would have given a month’s pay to be able to 
lay his hand on the man’s collar. 

“Ah! this brigand does not lack assurance,” 
said he. “To think how he defies and mocks us; 
and how for the third time he has escaped us. 
Three times!” 

The young detective was, at least, as angry as 
his companion — and his vanity was wounded be- 


200 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


sides; but he felt the necessity of coolness and 
deliberation. 

“Yes,” he replied, thoughtfully, “the man is 
daring and shrewd; and he does not sit down 
with folded arms. If we are working, he also is 
bestirring himself. The demon is everywhere. 
On whichever side I make an attack, I find him 
on the defensive. It was he, my friend, who 
made you lose the clew to Gustave’s identity; it 
was he who arranged that little comedy at the 
Hotel de Mariembourg. ” 

“And now,” remarked his companion, “now 
let the General come and tell us that we are 
chasing phantoms.” 

This flattery, delicate as it was, did not divert 
Lecoq’s attention from the matter under consid- 
eration. 

“Until now, this man has been in advance of 
us everywhere; this fact explains the failures 
that have attended all my efforts. Here, we ar- 
rived before him. But if he came here, it was 
because he scented danger. Therefore, we may 
hope. Let us return to the wife of this rascal, 
Polyte.” 

Alas ! poor Toinon, the virtuous, did not un- 
derstand this affair. She had remained upstairs, 
holding her child by the hand, and leaning over 
the banister, her eyes and her ears on the qui 
vive. As soon as she perceived the two men 
leisurely ascending the stairs, she came to meet 
them. ‘ ‘ In the name of Heaven, whAt does all this 
mean?” she exclaimed. “What has happened?” 

But Lecoq was not the man to tell his affairs 
in a corridor — tapestried, perhaps with listening 
and curious ears — and it was not until he had 
made Toinon enter her own apartment and close 
the door securely that he answered her : 

“We started in pursuit of an accomplice to the 
murders at the Poivriere. He came in, hoping 
to find you alone, but our presence frightened 
him.” 


MONSIEUR -LECOQ. 

assassin!” faltered Toiaon, with cla.^ 
hands. “What could he want of me?” 

“Who can say? It is very probable that he is 
one of your husband’s friends.” 

“Oh! monsieur.” 

“What, did you not tell me just now that Po- 
ly te had some very undesirable acquaintances? 
But do not be alarmed; this does not compro- 
mise him in the least. Besides, you can very 
easily clear him of all suspicion.” 

“How? In what way? Oh, tell me at once.” 

“Merely by answering me frankly, and by 
assisting me — you, who are an honest woman — 
to find the guilty party. Among all the friends 
of your husband, do you know of none capable 
of such a deed? Give me the names of his ac- 
quaintances.” 

The poor woman’s hesitation was evident; un- 
doubtedly she had been present at many sinister 
cabals, and had been threatened with terrible 
punishment if she dared to disclose their plans. 

“You have nothing to fear,” said Lecoq, en- 
couragingly, “and never, I promise you, shall 
any one know that you have told me a word. 
And very probably you can tell me nothing that 
I do not know now. I have heard much of your 
life already, to say nothing of the brutality with 
which 3"OU have been treated by Polyte and his 
mother.” 

“My husband, sir, has never treated me bru- 
tally,” said the young woman, indignantly; 
“besides, that is something which concerns onty 
myself.” 

“And your mother-in-law?” 

“She is, perhaps, a trifle quick-tempered; but, 
in reality, she has a very good heart.” 

“Then why did you flee from the Widow Chu- 
pin’s house, if you were so very happy there?” 

Toinon, the virtuous, turned scarlet to the 
very roots of her hair. 

“I left there for other reasons,” she responded. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

.aere were always a great many intoxicated 
men about the house; and sometimes, when I 
was alone, some of them wished to carry their 
pleasantry too far. You will probably say that 
I had a very solid fist, and that I am quite capa- 
ble of protecting myself. That is true. So I 
could, perhaps, have borne it. But when I was 
away, some of them were wicked enough to 
make this child drink to such an excess that on 
my return I found him as stiff and cold as if he 
were dead. It was necessary to call a physician 
to restore him — ” 

She suddenly paused; her eyes dilated. From 
red she turned livid, and in a choked, unnatural 
voice, she cried: “Toto! wretched child!” 

Lecoq looked behind him, and shuddered. He 
understood it all. This child, who was not yet 
five years old, had stolen up behind him, and 
was ferreting in the pockets of his overcoat, had 
plundered them, had rified them of their contents. 

“Ah, well — yes!” exclaimed the unfortunate 
mother, bursting into tears. “It was always so 
over there. As soon as the child was out of 
sight, they took him into the city. They car- 
ried him into the crowded streets, and they 
taught him to pick people’s pockets, and to 
bring them all he could find. If he was detected, 
they were angry with the child, and beat him. 
If he succeeded, they gave him a sou to buy 
candy, and kept what he had taken.” 

She hid her face in her hands, and in an al- 
most unintelligible voice she sobbed. 

“And I did not wish my little one to be a thief !” 

But what this poor creature did not tell was 
that he who had led the child out into the streets, 
to teach him to steal, was its own father, and 
her husband, Polyte Chupin. But the two men 
understood this perfectly; and so horrible was 
the man’s crime, and so despairing the grief of 
the woman, that they were touched in the very 
depths of their souls. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


203 


After that, Lecoq’s only thought was to shorten 
the painful scene as much as possible. Besides, 
the poor mother’s emotion was a sufficient guar- 
antee of her sincerity. 

“Listen,” said he, with affected harshness; 
“two questions only, and then I will leave you. 
Among the habitues of the establishment was 
there a man by the name of Gustave?” 

“No, sir; I am very sure there was not.” 

“Very well. But Lacheneur — you must know 
Lacheneur?” 

“Yes, sir; I know him.” 

The young policeman could not repress an ex- 
clamation of delight. He thought that he at 
last held an end of the thread that would lead 
him to the light — to the truth. 

“Who is this man?” he inquired, with in- 
tense anxiety. 

“Oh! he is not at all like the other men who 
come to drink at my mother-in-law’s saloon. I 
have seen him only once; but I remember him 
perfectly. It was on Sunday. He was in a car- 
riage. He stopped near the unoccupied ground 
and spoke to Polyte. When he went away, my 
husband said to me: ‘Do you see that old man 
there? he will make our fortune.’ I thought 
him a very respectable-looking gentleman — ” 

“That is enough,” interrupted Lecoq. “Now 
it is necessary for you to appear before the judge 
and make your deposition. I have a carriage 
below. Take your child with you, if you wish ; 
but make haste; come quickly — come!” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

M. Segmuller was one of those magistrates 
who cherish their profession with an undivided 
love, who give themselves to it, body and soul, 
devoting to it all the energy, intelligence and 
sagacity of which they are possessed. 


204 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


As a judge, he displayed, in the search after 
truth, the tenacity and zeal of a physician strug- 
gling against some unknown disease — the en- 
thusiasm of the artist who is wearing out his 
very life in his devotion to the beautiful. 

Hence, it is easy to understand how deeply he 
had become interested in this mysterious case 
which had been confided to him. 

He found in it all the elements that cannot 
fail to awaken intense interest. The magnitude 
of the crime, the peculiar circumstances attend- 
ing it, the impenetrable mystery that enshrouded 
the victims and the murderer, the strange atti- 
tude assumed by the prisoner, all served to make 
a profound impression upon his mind. 

The romantic element was not lacking, fur- 
nished by the two Women, all traces of whom 
had been lost. 

The extreme uncertainty of the result was an- 
other attraction. Self-love never loses its rights; 
and M. Segmuller felt that success would be 
honorable in proportion to the magnitude of the 
difficulties to be overcome. And assisted by 
such a man as Lecoq, in whom he had recog- 
nized a most valuable auxiliary, and a man 
with a positive genius for his calling, he felt 
quite confident of success. 

Even after the fatiguing labors of the day he 
did not think of freeing himself from the burden 
of his responsibility, or of driving away care 
until to-morrow. 

He ate his dinner hurriedly, and as soon as he 
had swallowed his coffee began to study the case 
with renewed ardor. 

He had brought with him from his office a 
copy of the prisoner’s deposition; and he went 
over it again and again, seeking some weak 
spot that might be attacked with a probability 
of success. 

He -analyzed each answer, and weighed one 
expression after another. He sought some flaw 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


205 


in the armor through which he could slip a ques- 
tion, which would rend the whole structure of 
defense in pieces, like a train of gunpowder. 

The greater part of the night was spent in this 
work; but that did not prevent him from rising 
long before his usual hour. 

By eight o’clock he was dressed, and shaved, 
had arranged his papers, taken his cup of choco- 
late, and was on his way to the Palais. 

He quite forgot that the impatience which 
possessed him was not boiling in the veins of 
others. But he soon discovered that fact. 

The Palais de Justice was scarcely awake 
when he arrived there. All the doors had not 
been opened. In the corridors some of the door- 
keepers and a crowd of sleepy office-boys were 
changing their ordinary clothing for their official 
costumes. 

Others, in their shirt-sleeves, were vigorously . 
sweeping and dusting the various rooms. Others 
were standing at the windows of the dressing- 
room shaking and brushing the long black robes 
of the lawyers. In the court-room some clerks 
were chaffing each other while they awaited the 
coming of the chief clerk, and the opening of the 
bureaux of information. 

M. Segmuller went to consult the attorney- 
general ; or the procureur imperial, as he is 
called in France; but his office was empty. No 
one had, as yet, arrived. 

Angry and impatient, he returned to his own 
office; and, with his eyes fastened upon the 
pendulum, caught himself wondering at the 
slowness of its movements. 

About ten minutes past nine, Goquet, the 
smiling clerk, made his appearance, and was 
greeted with a gruff, “AY ell! so you have come 
at last,” that left him in nl» doubt as to the state 
of his master’s humor. Yet Goquet had come 
much earlier than usual, for his movements also 
had been quickened by curiosity. 


206 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He tried to make some excuse; but M. Seg- 
muller cut it short, with such a curt response 
that he felt no desire to continue the conversa- 
tion. “Ah!” he thought, “it is very evident 
that the wind is blowing from a bad corner this 
morning.” 

And so, bowing before the storm, he philosoph- 
ically put on his black silk sleeves, went to his 
little table, and pretended to be absorbed in the 
task of cutting his pens and preparing his paper. 

But although he dared not show it, he was 
very much vexed. For the evening before, while 
conversing with his wife, he had gained some 
new ideas in regard to the mysterious prisoner; 
and he was eager to impart them to the judge. 

But no favorable opportunity presented itself. 
M. Segmuller, who was usually calmness per- 
sonified, and dignity par excellence, was trans- 
formed. He paced restlessly to and fro. he sat 
down, he sprang up, he gesticulated wildl}^, and 
seemed unable to be quiet for a moment. 

“The prosecution is evidently making no head- 
way,” thought the clerk. “May’s prospects are 
encouraging.” 

At that moment this idea delighted him; he 
sided with the prisoner, his rancor was so in- 
tense. 

From half-past nine to ten o’clock M. Segmul- 
ler rang for his messenger at least five times, 
and each time he asked him the same questions. 

“Are you sure that M. Lecoq has not been, 
here this morning? Inquire! If he has not been 
here he must certainly have sent some one, or he 
must have written me.” 

Each time the astonished door-keeper replied: 

“Ho one has been here, and there is no letter.” 

The judge became more and more angry and 
impatient. 

“It is inconceivable!” he murmured. “Here 
I am upon coals of fire, and that man dares to 
keep me waiting. Where can he be?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


^07 


At last he ordered a messenger to go and see 
if he could not find Lecoq somewhere in the 
neighborhood; perhaps in some restaurant or 
coffee-house; told him to go and find him and 
bring him there quickly, very quickly. 

When the man had gone, M. Segmuller seemed 
to recover his composure, in a slight degree, at 
least. 

“We must not lose valuable time,” he said to 
his clerk. “I was to examine the Widow Cha- 
pin’s son. I had better do so immediately. Go 
and tell them to bring him to me. Lecoq left 
the order at the prison.” 

In le^s than a quarter of an hour Polyte en- 
tered the room. 

Prom head to foot, from his. glazed cap to his 
gaudy-colored carpet slippers, he was indeed the 
man of the portrait upon which poor Toinon, the 
virtuous, had lavished such loving glances. 

But the picture was flattered. The photogra- 
pher could not fix the expression of low cunning 
that was imprinted upon the face of the original, 
nor the impudence that breathed in his smile, 
nor the mingled cowardice and ferocity of his 
eyes, which always evaded you. Nor could the 
picture portray the unwholesome, livid pallor of 
his skin, the restless opening and shutting of the 
eyelids, and the thin lips tightly drawn over the 
short, sharp teeth. 

It would be difficult for him to astonish those 
who saw him by any act of violence. For to see 
him, was to judge and to estimate his worth. 

When he had answered the preliminary ques- 
tions, told the j Lidge that he was thirty years of 
age, and that he had been born in Paris, he as- 
sumed a pretentious attitude and waited. 

But before proceeding to the real matter in 
hand, M. Segmuller wished to relieve the com- 
placent scoundrel of some of his assurance. 

He reminded Polyte, in very forcible terms, 
that the judgment to bo rendered in the affair 


208 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


in which he was implicated would depend very 
much upon his behavior and his responses dur- 
ing the present examination. 

Polyte listened with a nonchalant and even 
ironical air. 

In fact, he cared only the merest trifle for the 
threat. He had made previous inquiries and 
had ascertained that it would be impossible to 
condemn him to more than six months’ impris- 
onment for the offense for which he had been 
arrested ; and what did a month more or less 
matter to him? 

The judge, who read this feeling in Polyte’s 
eyes, cut his discourse short. 

“Justice now demands some information from 
you concerning the habitues of your mother’s 
establishment.” 

“There are a great many of them, m’sieur,” 
responded Polyte, in a coarse, harsh voice. 

“Do you know one among them by the name 
of Gustave?” 

“No, m’sieur.” 

To insist would probably awaken suspicion in 
Polyte’s mind, if he was really speaking the 
truth; so M. Segmuller continued : 

“You must, however, remember Lacheneur?” 

“Lacheneur? It is the first time I have ever 
heard that name.” 

“Take care. The police have means of find- 
ing out a great many things.” 

The scapegrace did not flinch. 

“I am telling the truth, m’sieur,” he insisted. 
“What interest could I possibly have in deceiv- 
ing you?” 

The door opened suddenly, and Toinon, his 
wife, entered with her child in her arms. 

On seeing her husband, the poor woman ut- 
tered a'cryof joy and sprang toward him. But 
Polyte, stepping back, bestowed upon her a ter- 
rible glance that rooted her to the spot. 

“It must be my enemy who pretends that I 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


209 


know any one named Lacheneur ! I would like 
to kill the person who uttered such a falsehood. 
Yes; kill the person— and I will never forgive 
it.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Having received orders to go in search of 
Lecoq and to bring him back, if he succeeded 
in finding him, M. Segmuller’s messenger had 
started on his errand. 

The commission was not at all disagreeable to 
him; it afforded him an excuse for quitting his 
post, and also a very pleasant little stroll through 
the neighborhood. 

He went to the prefecture first, by the longest 
way, however; but on arriving there, he could 
find no one who had seen the young detective. 

He then strolled leisurely through the restau- 
rants and through the drinking saloons in the 
vicinity of the Palais de Justice, and living 
through its patronage. 

Being a conscientious commissioner, he en- 
tered each of these establishments, and having 
recognized several acquaintances, he felt com- 
pelled to proffer and to accept certain courtesies 
at the rate of fifty centimes per glass. But no 
Lecoq. 

He was returning in haste, a trifle uneasy on 
account of the length of his absence, when a 
carriage stopped before the gateway of the palace. 

He looked up, and — oh, happiness ! from this 
carriage he saw Lecoq descend, followed by Fa- 
ther Absinthe and the Widow Chupin’s daugh- 
ter-in-law. 

His serenity of mind was instantly restored ; 
and it was in a very important tone that he de- 
livered the order for Lecoq to follow him with- 
out losing a minute. 

“Monsieur has asked for you a number of 


210 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


times,” said he. ‘‘He has been extremely im- 
patient, and he is in very bad humor; and you 
may expect to have your head snapped off in the 
most expeditious manner. ’ ’ 

Lecoq smiled as he ascended the staircase. 
Was he not bringing with him the most potent 
of justifications? He was thinking of the agree- 
able surprise he had in store for the judge, and 
he seemed to see the sudden brightening of that 
functionary’s gloomy face. 

And yet the message delivered by the door- 
keeper, and his urgent appeal that Lecoq should 
not loiter by the way, was fated to produce the 
most unfortunate results. 

Expected, as he supposed, and urged not to 
delay, Lecoq saw nothing wrong in opening the 
door of M. Segmuller’s office without knocking, 
and he obeyed the fatal impulse that impelled 
him to enter in advance of the poor woman whose 
testimony might be so decisive. 

Stupefaction seized him and held him motion- 
less when he saw that the judge was not alone, 
and when he recognized, in this witness, whom 
M. Segmuller was examining, the original of 
the portrait, Polyte Chupin. 

Instantly he comprehended his mistake, and 
its consequences. He did his best to prevent 
any communication, any interchange of thought 
between the husband and wife. 

He sprang toward Toinon, and catching her 
rudely by the arm, he ordered her to leave the 
room on the instant. 

“You cannot remain here,” he cried; “come, 
go!” 

But the poor creature was entirely overcome, 
and trembled like a leaf. She could see and hear 
nothing except her husband. To behold again 
this man whom she adored, what happiness! 
But why did he recoil from her? Why did he 
cast such withering glances upon her? 

She tried to speak, to explain ; but while she 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


211 


stood there frightened and bewildered, Polyte’s 
harsh condemnation pierced her brain like a rifle 
ball. 

Seeing this, Lecoq seized her about the waist, 
and lifting her as he would a feather he carried 
her out into the corridor. 

The whole scene had not lasted more than a 
moment, and M. Segmuller was still engaged in 
framing the order, when he found that the door 
was already closed, and that he was again alone 
with Polyte. , 

“Ah, ha!” thought Goquet, in a flutter of de- 
light, “here is something new.” 

But as these little diversions never made him 
forget his duties’ as a clerk, he leaned toward the 
judge to ask: “Must I take down the last 
words that were uttered by the witness?” 

“Certainly,” responded M. Segmuller, “and 
word for word, if you please.” 

He paused; the door opened again, to admit 
the door-keeper, who timidly, and with a rather 
guilty air, brought in a note, and again with- 
drew. 

This note, scribbled in pencil by Lecoq upon a 
leaf torn from his memorandum-book, told the 
judge the name of the woman who .had just en- 
tered his room, and told briefly, but clearly, the 
information that had just been obtained. 

“That boy thinks of everything!” murmured 
M. Segmuller. 

The meaning of the scene that had taken place 
before his eyes a moment previous was now evi- 
dent. He understood the whole. 

He regretted most bitterly this unfortunate 
meeting. But whom ought he to blame for it? 
Himself— himself alone; his impatience, his lack 
of caution, which, as soon as his messenger had 
departed, had induced him to summon Polyte 
Chupin. 

While he could not doubt the enormous influ- 
ence of this trifling circumstance, he would not 


212 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


allow himself to be alarmed by it, and continued 
his task of endeavoring to elicit some informa- 
tion from the sorry specimen before him. 

“Let us go on,” he said to Polyte. 

The scapegrace gave a careless sign of assent. 
Since his wife had been taken from the room he 
had not moved, and was apparently sublimely 
indifferent to all that was passing around him. 

“Was lhat your wife who came in just now?” 
demanded M. Segmuller. 

/‘Yes.” 

“She wished to embrace you, and you repulsed 
* her.” 

“I did not repulse her, m’sieur.” 

“You kept her at a distance;- if you had any 
affection you would, at least, have given a look 
to your child, Vv^hich she held out to you. Why 
was it?” 

“It was not a time for sentiment.” 

“You are not telling the truth. You simply 
desired to attract her attention while you dictated 
her deposition.” 

“I — I dictate her deposition! I do not under- 
stand you, m’sieur.” 

“Were it not for this supposition, the words 
you uttered would be unintelligible.” 

“What words?” 

The judge turned to his clerk: 

“Goquet,” said he, “read the last remark you 
took down to the witness.” 

The clerk, in a monotonous voice, read: 

“I would like to kill the person who dared to 
say that I knew Lacheneur.” 

“-EJ/i hienP'* insisted M. Segmuller, “what do 
you mean by that?” 

“It is very easy to understand, m’sieur.” 

M. Segmuller rose. 

“Enough of this prevaricating! You clearly 
ordered your wife to keep silence; that fact is 
evident- Why should you have done this? and 
what can she tell us? Do you suppose that the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. ^13 

police are ignorant of your relations with Lache- 
neur — of your conversation with him when he, in 
a carriage, and in an unfrequented spot, awaited 
your coming — of the hopes of fortune which you 
based upon him? Be guided by me; decide to 
confess all, while there is yet time; do not pur- 
sue a course which may lead you into serious 
danger. One can be an accomplice in more ways 
than one.” 

It is certain that Polyte’s impudence and in- 
difference had received a very severe shock. He 
seemed confounded, and hung his head, mutter- 
ing some unintelligible response. 

Still, he preserved an obstinate silence; and 
the judge, who had just employed his strongest 
argument, and in vain, gave up in despair. He 
rang the bell, and ordered the guard to conduct 
the witness back to prison, and to take every 
precaution to prevent him from seeing his wife 
again. 

When Polyte had departed, Lecoq reappeared. 
He was in despair. 

“To think,” he repeated, again and again, 
“that I did not draw from this woman all that 
she knew, when it could have been done so eas- 
ily. But I thought that you would be waiting 
for me, monsieur, so I made haste to bring her 
here. I thought I was acting for the best—” 

“Never mind, the misfortune can be repaired.” 

“No, monsieur, no; we shall learn nothing 
more from this poor woman. It is impossible to 
extort a single word from her since she has seen 
her husband. She loves him with a blind and 
foolish adoration; and he has an all-powerful 
influence over her. He has ordered her to be si- 
lent, and she will be silent ‘even unto death.’ ” ' 

The young man’s fears were well-grounded. 
M. Segmuller saw this only too well, the instant 
Toinon, the virtuous, again set foot in his office. 

The poor creature seemed nearly heart-broken. 
It was evident that she would have given her life 


214 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to retract the words which had escaped her in 
her attic. Polyte’s look had made her turn cold 
with horror, and had aroused the most sinister 
apprehensions in her mind. Not understanding 
his connection with the affair, she asked herself 
if her testimony would not be a death-warrant 
for him. 

So she refused to make any response other 
than “no,” or “I do not know,” to questions; 
and all that she had previously said she retract- 
ed. She swore that she was mistaken, that she 
had been misunderstood, that her words had been 
misrepresented. She declared upon the most 
sacred oaths that she had never before heard 
the name of Lacheneur. 

At last, when they pressed their questions too 
closely, she burst into wild, despairing sobs, 
pressing her weeping child convulsively to her 
breast. 

What could one do against this foolish obsti- 
nacy, which was as unreasoning and blind as 
that of a brute? M. Segmuller hesitated. Fi- 
nally, after a moment’s reflection: 

“You may retire, my good woman,” he said, 
kindly; “but remember that your strange silence 
injures your husband more than anything you 
could say.” 

She left the room — or rather she rushed wildly 
away — and the judge and the detective ex- 
changed glances of dismay and consternation. 

“I said so before,” thought Goquet; “the 
prisoner understands what he is about. I would 
be willing to bet a hundred to one on the pris- 
oner.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

In a single word Delamoite Felines has de- 
fined prosecution. A “struggle,” he terms it; 
and it is, in reality, a terrible struggle between 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


215 


justice, seeking after the truth, and crime, en- 
deavoring to conceal it. 

The judge of instruction, as he is called in 
France, is invested with discretionary powers, 
and is responsible only to the law and to his own 
conscience. 

No one can hamper him, no one can gi ve him 
orders. Administration, police, armed force, 
are all at his disposal. At a word from him 
twenty agents, or a hundred, if need be, search 
Paris, ransack France, or explore Europe. 

If he suppose that any person can throw light 
upon an obscure point, he orders that man to ap- 
pear in his office; and he must come, if he lives 
a hundred leagues away. Such is the position. 

Isolated behind the bars, and probably in the 
solitary cell, the man accused of a crime is, as 
it were, cut off from the number of the living. 
No news from without reaches him in the cell, 
where he lives beneath the eye of his keeper. Of 
what is said, of what is passing outside these 
walls, he knows nothing. What witnesses have 
been examined, and what they have said, he 
knows not; and, in his doubt and uncertainty, 
he again and again asks himself to what extent 
he has been compromised, what proofs have 
been collected against him, and what grave 
charges are ready to crush him. 

Such is the position of the prisoner. And yet, 
in spite of the fact that the two adversaries are 
so unequally armed, the man in the solitary cell 
not infrequently conquers. 

If he is sure that he has left behind him no 
proofs of his crime, if he has no antecedents to 
rise up against him, he can, impregnable in a 
defense of absolute denial, brave all the attacks 
of justice. Such was, at this moment, the sit- 
uation of May, the mysterious murderer. 

M. Segmuller and Lecoq, with mingled sorrow 
and anger, were forced to admit this. 

They had hoped that Polyte Chupin or his wife 


216 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


would give them the solution of this vexed prob- 
lem — this hope had been disappointed. And the 
identity of the prisoner remained as problematic 
as ever. 

“And yet,” exclaimed the judge, vehemently, 
“and yet these people know something about 
this matter, and if they would — ” 

“They 'will not.” 

“Why, what motive influences them? This is 
what is necessary to discover. Who will tell us 
by what dazzli ng promises the silence of a scoun- 
drel like this Polyte Chapin has been purchased? 
Upon what recompense does he count, since he 
is willing to brave real danger by this silence?” 

Lecoqdid not reply, but his knit brows showed 
that his thoughts were busy. 

“There is one question which puzzles me more 
than anything else, and if it could be answered 
we should have made a long step in advance,” 
he finally remarked. 

“ What is it?” 

“You ask, monsieur, what reward has been 
promised to Chupin. I ask who it is that has 
promised him this reward?” 

“Who has promised it? Evidently the accom- 
plice who has beaten us at every point.” 

At this homage to the skill and audacity of his 
opponent, the young detective clinched his hands 
and vowed vengeance against the man who had 
made him a prisoner, only an hour before. 

“Certainly,” he replied. “I recognize his 
hand in this. And now what artifice has he 
used? We understand the method by which 
he succeeded in gaining an interview with the 
Widow Chupin. But how has he succeeded in 
reaching Polyte, who is a prisoner, and closely 
guarded?” 

He did not utter his whole thought, but M. 
Segmuller understood him, and seemed intensely 
surprised, and even a trifle indignant, at the 
young man’s suspicions. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


217 


“What can you mean?” said he. “You can- 
not suppose that one of the employes has been 
corrupted?” 

Lecoq shook his head with a rather equivocal 
air. ‘ ‘ I mean nothing, ’ ’ he replied ; “ I suspect no 
one. I am merely in pursuit of information. 
Has Chupin been warned — yes or no?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“That fact is admitted, then. So I presume 
we must explain it by supposing either that there 
are informers in the prison, or that Chupin has 
been allowed to see some visitor.” 

M. Segmuller was evidently disturbed. He 
seemed to be hesitating between two opinions; 
then, suddenly making up his mind, he rose, 
took his hat, and said; “I wish to have this 
matter cleared up. Come, Monsieur Lecoq.” 

In two minutes (thanks to the dark and nar- 
row passage that connects the depot with the 
Palais de Justice) they entered the jail. 

Rations had just been served to the prisoners, 
and the head-keeper, who had been engaged in 
superintending the distribution, was now prom- 
enading in the court-yard with Gevrol. 

As soon as he saw the judge, he approached 
him with great deference of manner. 

“Undoubtedly, sir, you have come about the 
prisoner. May?” 

“Yes.” 

Since it was a question of a prisoner, Gevrol 
thought he might approach without impropriety. 

“I was just now talking to Inspector Gevrol 
about the prisoner,” pursued the keeper, “and I 
was telling him that I had good reason to be 
satisfied with this man’s conduct. It not only 
has been quite unnecessary to place him in the 
strait- jacket, but his mood seems to have changed 
entirely. He has a good appetite ; he is as gay 
as a lark, and laughs and jests with his keeper.” 

The judge and*' Lecoq exchanged troubled 
glances. This gayety might be assumed for the 


218 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


purpose of carrying out his role as a jester and 
buffoon ; but might it not have come from a 
certainty of defeating his opponents? or, who 
knows? perhaps, from some unfavorable news 
received from without. 

This last supposition offered itself so persist- 
ently to M. Segmuller’s mind that he trembled. 

“Are you sure,” he inquired, “that no com- 
munication from outside can reach the inmates 
of the solitary cells?” 

The worthy keeper seemed to be deeply 
wounded by the implied doubt. His subordi- 
nates suspected! — perhaps the keeper himself! 
He could not help lifting his hands to Heaven 
in mute protest against such injustice. 

“Am I sure?” he exclaimed. “Then you 
have never visited the solitary cells— or the se- 
cret cells, as we call them. You have no idea,* 
then, of the precautions that surround them, the 
triple bolts, the grating that shuts out the sun- 
light,. to say nothing of the guard who walks be- 
neath the windows night and day. Not even a 
bird could reach the prisoners in those cells.” 

Such a description could not fail to reassure 
the most skeptical. 

“Now that I am easy on that score,” said the 
judge, “I would like some information regard- 
ing another prisoner — a certain Chupin.” 

“Ah! I know — a vile scoundrel!” 

“He is, indeed. I would like to know if he 
received any visitor yesterday?” 

“It will be necessary for me to inquire of the 
clerk before I can answer with certainty. Wait 
a moment; here is a man who, perhaps, can in- 
form us. He is on guard at the entrance. Here, 
Ferrau, this way!” he called. 

The man hastened to obey the summons. 

“Do you know whether the prisoner named 
Chupin was in the reception-room yesterday?” 

“Yes, sir, he was; I conducted him there my- 
self.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


219 


“And who was his visitor?” inquired Lecoq, 
eagerly; “a large man, was it not, very red in 
the face — ” 

“Excuse me, monsieur, the visitor was a lady; 
his aunt, he told me.” 

An exclamation of surprise escaped the lips of 
the judge and of the detective, and together they 
demanded : “What was she like?” 

“Small,” replied the man, “with very fair 
complexion and light hair ; she seemed to be a 
very respectable woman.” 

“It must have been one of the fugitives who 
escaped from the Widow Chupin’s hovel,” ex- 
claimed Lecoq. 

Gevrol laughed loudly. 

“Still that Russian princess!” said he. 

But the judge did not appear to enjoy the 
pleasantry. 

“You forget yourself, monsieur,” he said, se- 
verely. “You forget that the sneers you address 
to your comrade also touch me!” 

The General saw that he had gone too far; 
and while he bestowed one of his most venomous 
glances upon Lecoq, he mumbled his excuses to 
the judge. 

M. Segmuller did not hear them, apparently. 
He bowed to the keeper, and motioned Lecoq to 
follow him. 

“Run to the prefecture,” he said, as soon as 
they were out of hearing, “and ascertain how 
and under what pretext this woman obtained 
permission to visit Polyte Chupin.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Left alone, M. Segmuller returned mechani- 
cally to his office, guided by force of habit rather 
than by any volition of his own. 

All his faculties were hard at work; and so 


220 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


great was his preoccupation that he, who was 
ordinarily the quintessence of politeness, entirely 
forgot to return the salutations which he received 
on his way. 

How had this case, until now, been conducted? 
By hazard, according to the caprice of events. 
Like a man lost in the darkness he had left his 
course to chance, walking toward anything 
which, in the distance, seemed to him like a 
light. 

To travel in .this way is a useless expenditure 
of time and strength. He admitted this in rec- 
ognizing the urgent and pressing necessity of 
some definite plan of action. 

Since he had not succeeded in capturing the 
city by a sudden attack, he was compelled to 
resign himself to the methodical delays of a reg- 
ular and protracted siege. 

And he decided to do this at once, for he 
felt that the hours were fleeting all too fast. He 
knew that delay only increased the uncertainty 
of success, and that the investigation of a crime 
becomes more and more difficult in proportion 
as one is removed from the time when said 
crime was committed. 

There were some things that might still be. 
done. 

Ought he not to confront the murderer, the 
AVidow Chupin, and Polyte with the bodies of 
their victims? 

Such horrible encounters are sometimes pro- 
ductive of unhoped-for results. 

More than one murderer, when unexpectedly 
brought into the presence of his victim, had 
changed color and lost his assurance. 

There were other witnesses whom he could ex- 
amine. Papillon, the coachman; the concierge 
of the mansion on the Rue de Bourgogne, where 
the two women had taken refuge for a moment, 
and Mme. Milner, the mistress of the Hotel de 
Mariembourg. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


221 


Would it not also be advisable to summon, 
with the least possible delay, some of the resi- 
dents in the vicinity of the Poivriere, and some 
comrades of Polyte, as well as the proprietor of 
the Rainbow, where the victims and the mur- 
derer had passed apportion of the evening? 

Certainly, one had no reason to hope for any 
great enlightenment from any particular one of 
these witnesses; but each one might add his con- 
jectures, express an opinion, or be able to throw- 
some light on the subject. 

Coquet, the smiling clerk, acting in compliance 
with the orders of the judge, had just finished 
drawing up at least a dozen citations, when Le- 
coq reappeared. 

“Well?” exclaimed the judge, eagerly. 

Really, the question was superfluous. The re- 
sult of his expedition was plainly written upon 
the face of the detective. 

“Nothing — always nothing.” 

“But how can that be? Do they not know to 
whom the permission to visit Polyte Chupin was 
given?” 

“Pardon, monsieur, they know but too well. 
We find only fresh proof of the infernal skill 
with which the accomplice profits by eyery cir- 
cumstance. The permit that was used yesterday 
was in the name of a sister of the Widow Chu- 
pin, Rose Adelaide Pitard. The card of admis- 
sion was given her more than a week ago, in 
compliance with a request which was indorsed 
by the commissioner of police.” 

The surprise of the judge was so intense that 
it gave to his face an almost ludicrous expres- 
sion. 

“Is this aunt also in the plot?” he murmured. 

The detective shook his head. 

“I think not,” he answered. “It was not she, 
at all events, who was in the prison parlor yes- 
terday. The clerks at the prefecture remember 
the widow’s sister very well, and gave me a full 


222 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


description of her. She is a woman over five feet 
in height, very dark-complexioned, very wrinkled 
and weather-beaten in appearance, and about 
sixty years of age. The visitor yesterday was 
small, blonde, and apparently not more than 
forty-five.” 

“If that is the case,” interrupted M. Segmul- 
ler, “this visitor must be one of our fugitives.” 

“I do not think so.” 

“Who do you suppose she was, then?” 

“The mistress of the Hotel de Mariembourg — 
that clever woman who succeeded so well in de- 
ceiving me. But she had better take care! There 
are means of verifying my suspicions.” 

The judge scarcely heard Lecoq’s words, so 
enraged was he at the inconceivable audacity 
and marvelous devotion of these people, who 
risked everything to preserve the incognito of 
the murderer. 

“But how could the accomplice have known 
the existence of this permit?” 

“Oh, nothing could be easier, monsieur. When 
the Widow Chupin and the accomplice held their 
interview at the station-house of the Barriere 
dTtalie, they both realized the necessity of warn- 
ing Polyte. They tried to devise some way of 
seeing him ; the old woman remembered her sis- 
ter’s card of admission, and the man made some 
excuse to borrow it.” 

“Such is undoubtedly the case,” said M. Seg- 
muller, approvingly. “It will be necessary to 
ascertain, however — ” 

Lecoq’s bearing was that of a resolute man, 
whose eager zeal has no need of a stimulant. 

“And I will ascertain,” said he, “if you, 
monsieur, will intrust the matter to me. No 
aid to success shall be neglected. Before even- 
ing I would have two spies on the watch — one 
at the Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles, the other 
at the door of the Hotel de Mariembourg. If 
the accomplice attempted to visit Toinon, or 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 223 

Mme. Milner, he should be arrested. It would 
be our turn then !” 

But there was no time to waste in words and 
in idle boastings. He checked himself, and took 
his hat, preparatory to departure. 

“Now,” said he, “I must ask Monsieur le 
Judge for my liberty; if he has any orders to 
give me, he will find a trusty messenger in the 
corridor. Father Absinthe, one of my colleagues. 
I wish to discover some facts in regard to two of 
our most important articles of conviction, Lache- 
neur’s letter and the ear-ring.” 

“Go, then,” responded M. Segmuller, “and 
good luck to you!” 

Good luck ! The detective, indeed, looked for 
it. If, up to the present moment, he had taken 
his successive defeats good-humoredly, it was 
because he believed that he had a talisman in his 
pocket which would insure him victory at last. 

“I shall be very stupid if I am not capable of 
discovering the owner of an article of such great 
value!” he said, referring to the diamond. 
“And when we find the owner, we discover, at 
the same time, the identity of our mysterious 
prisoner!” 

The first step to be taken was to ascertain in 
what shop this ornament had been purchased. 
To go from jeweler to jeweler, asking: “Is this 
your work?” would be a tedious process. 

Fortunately, Lecoq knew a man who would be 
willing to give him all the information in his 
power. 

This man was an old Hollander, named Van 
Numen, who, where jewelry or precious stones 
were concerned, was without a rival in Paris. 

He was employed in the prefecture in the ca- 
pacity of an expert in such matters. He was 
considered rich; but he was far more wealthy 
than people supposed. Shabby as he always was 
in appearance, he had a passion for diamonds. 
He always had some of them about his person. 


224 


' MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ill a little box, which he drew out of his pocket 
a dozen times an hour, as a snuff-taker brings 
out his snuff-box. 

This worthy man greeted Lecoq very affably. 
He put on his glasses, examined the jewel with 
a grimace of satisfaction, and, in the tone of an 
oracle, said : 

“That stone is worth eight thousand francs, 
and it was set by Doisty, on the Rue de la Paix. ” 

Twenty minutes later Lecoq entered the estab- 
lishment of this celebrated jeweler. 

Van Numen was not mistaken. Doisty im- 
mediately recognized the ornaments, which had, 
indeed, come from his store. But to whom had 
he sold it? He could not recollect, for it had 
passed out of his hands three or four years before. 

“But wait a moment,” he added, “I will ask 
my wife, who has an incomparable memory.” 

Mme. Doisty deserved this eulogium. A 
single glance at this jewel enabled her to say 
that she had seen this ear-ring before, and that 
the pair had been purchased from them by the 
Marquise d’Arlange. 

“You must recollect,” she added, turning to 
her husband, “that the marquise paid us only 
nine thousand francs on account, and that we 
had all the trouble in the world in collecting the 
remainder.” 

Her husband did remember this circumstance. 

“Now,” said the detective, “I would like the 
address of this marquise.” 

“She lives in the Faubourg St. Germain,” re- 
sponded Mme. Doisty, “near the Esplanade des 
Invalides.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

While in the presence of the jeweler, Lecoq 
had refrained from any demonstration of satis- 
faction. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


225 


But when he had left the store, he evinced 
such delirious joy that the amazed passers-by 
wondered if the man were not mad. He did not 
walk, he fairly danced over the stones, gesticu- 
lating all the while in the most ridiculous fash- 
ion, as he addressed this triumphant monologue 
to the empty air : 

“At last,’’ said he, “this affair emerges from 
the mystery that has enshrouded it. At last I 
reach the veritable actors in the drama, these ex- 
alted personages whom I had suspected. Ah! 
Gevrol, illustrious General ! you wished a Rus- 
sian princess, but you will be obliged to content 
yourself with a simple marquise.” 

But this species of vertigo gradually disap- 
peared. His good sense re-asserted itself, and 
the young man felt that he would have need of 
all his coolness, all his penetration, and all his 
sagacity to bring this expedition to a successful 
termination. 

What course should he pursue, on entering the 
presence of the marquise, in order to draw a full 
confession from her, and to obtain all the details 
of the murder, as well as the murderer’s name? 

“It will be best to threaten her, to frighten her 
into confession, that will be the best way. If I 
give her time for reflection,! shall learn nothing. ” 

He paused in his cogitations, for he had 
reached the abode of the Marquise d’Arlange— a 
charming house, surrounded by a garden; and 
before entering the mansion, he deemed it advis- 
able to learn something of its interior and of its 
inmates. 

“It is here, then,” he murmured, “that I shall 
And the solution of the enigma! Here, behind 
those rich curtains, crouches the frightened fugi- 
tive of the other night. For what an agony of 
fear must torture her since she has discovered 
the loss of the jewel! ” 

For more than an hour, sheltered beneath a 
neighboring porte-cochere, Lecoq stood watch- 


226 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ing the house. He wished to see the face of 
some inmate of the mansion. But his time was 
lost. Not a face showed itself at the windows, 
not a valet traversed the court. 

At last, losing patience, he determined to make 
some inquiries in the neighborhood. 

He could not take a decisive step without hav- 
ing some knowledge of the people he was to 
encounter. He was wondering where he could 
obtain the desired information, when he per- 
ceived, on the opposite side of the street, a wine 
merchant smoking on the pavement in front of 
his shop. 

He approached him, and pretending that he 
had forgotten an address, politely inquired which 
house was the abode of the Marquise d’Arlange. 

Without a word, without even condescending 
to remove his pipe from his mouth, the man 
pointed to the house. 

But there was a way of rendering him com- 
municative, and that was to enter his establish- 
ment, call for something to drink, and invite the 
proprietor to drink with him. 

This the young man did, and the sight of two 
well-filled glasses unbound, as by a miracle, the 
tongue of the worthy shop-keeper. 

One could not have found a better man to in- 
terrogate, as he had been established in that 
quarter for ten years, and was honored by the 
patronage of most of the residents. 

“I pity you if you are going to the house of 
the marquise to collect a bill,” he remarked to 
Lecoq. “You will have plenty of time to learn 
the way to the house before you see the color of 
your money. You will only be another of the 
many creditors who never let that bell rest.” 

“The devil! Is she so poor as all that?” 

“Poor! Every one knows that she has an in- 
come of twenty thousand livres, without count- 
ing this house. But when one spends double 
one’s income every year, you know—” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


227 

He stopped short, to call Lecoq’s attention to 
two ladies who were passing — one, rather more 
than forty years of age, dressed in black; the 
other, very young, and still clothed in the garb 
of a school- girl. 

“And that,” he added, “is the marquise’s 
grand-daughter. Mile. Claire, attended by her 
governess. Mile. Smith.” 

Lecoq’s head whirled. 

“Her grand-daughter?” he stammered. 

“Yes — the daughter of her deceased son, if you 
like that any better.” 

“How old is the marquise, then?” 

“At least sixty; but one would never suspect 
it. She is one of those persons who will live a 
hundred j^ears, like trees. And what an old 
wretch she is! She would think no more of 
knocking me over the head than I would of 
emptying this glass of wine — ” 

“Pardon,” interrupted Lecoq, “but does she 
live alone in that great house?” 

“Yes — that is — with only her grand-daughter, 
the governess, and two servants. But what is 
the matter with you?” 

It was not strange that he asked this question, 
for Lecoq had turned as white as his shirt. The 
magic edifice of his hopes had crumbled beneath 
the weight of this man’s words as completely as 
if it were a frail card” house constructed by some 
child. 

“Yothing — nothing at all,” he responded, in 
an uncertain voice. 

But he could not endure this torture of uncer- 
tainty any longer. He went to the house and 
rang the bell. 

The servant who came to open the door exam- 
ined him attentively, then replied that madame 
la marquise was in the country. Evidently she 
did him the honor of taking him for some creditor. 

But he insisted so adroitly, he gave her to 
understand so explicitly that he did not come to 


228 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


collect money, he spoke so earnestly of urgent 
business, that the man finally admitted him to 
the vestibule, telling him that he would go and 
ascertain if madame had really gone out. 

She was at home. An instant after the valet 
returned to tell Lecoq to follow him; and after 
passing a large and magnificently-furnished 
drawing-room, he conducted him into a charm- 
ing boudoir, hung with rose-color. 

There, in a large reclining chair by the fire- 
place, sat an old woman, large, bony, and terri- 
ble of aspect, loaded with ornaments and with 
paint. She was engaged in knitting a stripe of 
green wool. 

She turned toward the visitor just enough to 
show him the rouge on one cheek; then, as he 
seemed rather frightened — a fact flattering to 
her vanity — she spoke to him quiet affably. 

“Ah, well! young man; what brings you 
here?” 

Lecoq was not frightened, but.he was intensely 
disappointed to see that Mme. d’Arlange could 
not be one of the women who had visited the 
Widow Chupin’s saloon on that memorable night. 

There was nothing about her appearance that 
corresponded in the least with the description 
given by Papillon. 

Then the young man remembered the small 
foot-prints left in the snow by the two fugitives. 
The foot of this marquise, which showed itself 
below the bottom of her dress, was truly colossal 
in size. 

“Well! are you dumb?” inquired the old 
lady, raising her voice. 

Without making a direct response, Lecoq 
drew from his pocket the precious ear-ring, and 
placing it upon the table beside her, he said: 

“I bring you this article which I have found, 
and which, I am told, belongs to you.” 

Madame d’Arlange laid down her knitting to 
examine the jewel. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


229 


‘‘It is true,” she said, after a moment, “that 
this ornament formerly belonged to me. It was 
a fancy that I had, about four years ago, and it 
cost me dear — at least twenty thousand francs. 
Ah! Doisty, the man who sold me these dia- 
monds, must make a handsome living. But I 
had a granddaughter to educate ! Pressing need 
of money compelled me to sell them.” 

“To whom?” inquired Lecoq, eagerly. 

“Eh!” exclaimed the lady, evidently shocked 
at his audacity, “you are very curious, upon my 
word!” 

“Excuse me, madame, but I am so anxious to 
find the owner of this valuable ornament.” 

Madame d’Arlange regarded her visitor with 
an air of mingled curiosity and surprise. “Such 
honesty!” said she. “Oh, oh! And, of course, 
you do not hope for a sou by way of reward — ” 

“Madame!” 

“Good, goojd! There is not the least need for 
you to turn as red as a poppy, young man. I 
sold these diamonds to a great German lady — for 
the nobility in Austria have some money left — to 
the Baroness de Watchau.” 

“And where does this lady live?” 

“At the Pere la Chaise, probably, since she 
died about a year ago. These women of the 
present day — a turn in the waltz, and a current 
of air, and it is all over with them ! In my day, 
after each galop, young girls swallowed a great 
glass of sweetened wine, and sat down between 
two doors. And we did very well, as you see.” 

“But, madame,” insisted Lecoq, “the Bar- 
oness de Watchau must have left heirs — a hus- 
band, children — ” 

“No one but a brother, who holds a court po- 
sition at Vienna; and who could not leave even, 
to attend the funeral. He sent orders that all his 
sister’s personal property should be sold — not 
even excepting her wardrobe — and the money 
sent to him.” 


230 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Lecoq could not repress an exclamation of dis- 
appointment. 

“How unfortunate!” he murmured. 

“Why?” asked the old lady. “Under these 
circumstances the diamonds will probably re- 
main in your hands, and I am rejoiced at it; it 
will be a just recompense for your honesty.” 

If fate, to all Lecoq’s other afflictions had de- 
termined to add that of irony, his cup of sorrow 
would, indeed, be full. The Marquise d’Ar- 
lange inflicted upon him the most exquisite tor- 
ture when, with every appearance of sincerity, 
she expressed a wish that he might never find 
the lady who had lost this costly jewel. 

To cry out, to give vent to his anger, to re- 
proach this old woman for her stupidity would 
have afforded him ineffable consolation. But in 
that case, what would become of his role of hon- 
est young man? 

He forced his lips to display a smile; he even 
stammered an acknowledgment of her goodness. 
Then, as if he had no more to expect, he bowed 
low, and withdrew, overwhelmed by this new 
misfortune. 

Owing to some strange fatality, or to the mar- 
velous skill of his “adversaries, he had seen all 
the threads upon which he had relied to guide 
him out of this labyrinth, break in his hands. 

Was he the dupe of some new comedy? This 
was not probable. 

If the murderer’s accomplice had taken the 
jeweler, Doisty, into his confidence, he would 
have told him to reply to any inquiries by sa}^- 
ing that he did not know to whom the diamonds 
had been sold, or that it had not come from his 
establishment. 

But this complication of circumstances proved 
Doi sty’s sincerity at least. 

Then the young man had other reasons for not 
doubting the truth of. the assertions made by the 
marquise. A peculiar look, which he had de- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 2Si 

tected between the Jeweler and his wife, was a 
sufficient authentication. 

This glance said very plainly that, in their 
opinion, the marquise, in purchasing the dia- 
monds, had engaged in a little speculation, more 
common than people suppose among women of 
the world. She had bought on credit, to sell at 
a loss, profiting momentarily by the difference 
between the sum she had paid on account and 
the price she received for the Jewels. 

Lecoq was resolved to fathom the mystery 
that surrounded the ornament ; and with this ob- 
ject in view, he returned to Doisty’s establish- 
ment, and, by means of a plausible pretext, suc- 
ceeded in gaining a sight of the books in which 
the proprietor recorded ’his sales. 

On the year and the month that Mme. Doisty 
had mentioned, the sale of these ear-rings had 
been recorded, not only upon the day-book, but 
upon the ledger. The nine thousand francs paid 
by Mme. d’Arlange at long intervals were also 
duly recorded. 

How Mme, Milner might inscribe a false entry 
upon her register, one could easily understand. 
But it was absurd to suppose that the Jeweler 
had falsified all his accounts for four years. 

The facts, therefore, were indisputable; still 
the young detective was not satisfied. 

He hurried to the Faubourg Saint- Honore, to 
the house which the Baroness de Watchau had 
occupied, and there he found a good-natured 
concierge, who informed him that after the de- 
cease of that poor lady, her furniture and her 
personal property had been taken to an estab- 
lishment on the Rue Drouot. “And the sale 
was under the charge of M. Petit,” added the 
obliging concierge. 

Without losing a minute, Lecoq rail to the 
establishment of this auctioneer, who made a 
specialty of rare collections of bric-a-brac. 

M. Petit remembered the “Watchau sale” very 


232 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


well; it had made quite a seusatiou at the time, 
and he soon found a long catalogue of the arti- 
cles sold among his papers. 

Many jewels were mentioned, with the sum 
paid, and the names of the parties purchasing; 
but there was not the slightest allusion to the 
accursed ear-rings. 

Lecoq drew out the diamond which he had in 
his pocket. The auctioneer could not remember 
that he had ever seen it; but this was no evi- 
dence to the contrary — so many articles passed 
through his hands! 

But this much he could declare upon oath : that 
the brother of the baroness, her heir, had re- 
served nothing — not so much as a pin’s worth of 
his sister’s effects; and that he had been in a 
great hurry to receive the proceeds, which 
amounted to the very pleasant sum of one hun- 
dred and sixty-seven thousand five hundred and 
thirty francs, after deducting all expenses. 

“So everything that this lady possessed was 
sold?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Everything.” 

“And what is the name of this brother?” 

“Watchau, also. The baroness had probably 
married one of her relatives. This brother, un- 
til last year, occupied a very prominent diplo- 
matic position. He resides at Berlin now, I 
think.” 

Certainly this information would not seem to 
indicate that these witnesses had been tampered 
with ; and yet Lecoq was not satisfied. 

“It is very strange, ” he thought, on regaining 
his lodgings, “that to whichever side I turn, in 
this affair, I find Germany. The murderer comes 
from Leipsic, Madame Milner must be a Bava- 
rian, and now here is an Austrian baroness.” 

It was too late to make any further inquiries 
that evening, and Lecoq went to bed; but the 
next morning, at an early hour, he resumed his 
investigations with fresh ardor. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


233 


Now, there seemed to be only one chance of 
success left; the letter signed by Lacheneur, 
which had been found in the pocket of the mur- 
dered soldier. 

This letter, judging from the half-effaced 
heading, must have been written in a cafe on 
the Boulevard Beaumarchais. 

To discover in which cafe would be only 
child’s play. 

The fourth restaurant- keeper to whom Lecoq 
exhibited this letter recognized the paper as his. 

But neither he, nor his wife, nor the young 
lady at the desk, nor the waiters, nor any of the 
guests present at the time, had ever in their 
lives heard the three syllables of this name, 
Lacheneur. 

What was he to do now? Was the case en- 
tirely hopeless? Not yet. 

Had not the dying soldier declared that this 
Lacheneur was an old comedian? 

Seizing upon his frail clew, as a drowning 
man clutches at the merest fragment of the float- 
ing wreck, Lecoq turned his steps in another di- 
rection, and hurried from theater to theater, ask- 
ing every one, from the porters to the managers: 

“Do you know not an actor named Lache- 
neur?” 

Everywhere he met with the same response, 
not infrequently enlivened by rough jokes. And 
very often those whom he interrogated inquired : 

“What sort of a looking man is your artist?” 

What could he reply? All his responses were 
necessarily limited to that phrase uttered by 
Toinon: “I thought him a very respectable 
looking man.” This was not a very graphic 
description, however. Besides, it was rather 
doubtful what a woman like the wife of Polyte 
Chupin meant by the word “respectable.” Did 
she apply it to the man’s age, to his personal ap- 
pearance, or to his apparent fortune? 

Sometimes they inquired : 


234 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What roles does your comedian play?” 

And the young man, in his ignorance, could 
make no repl^r ; but this much he could have said 
with truth, that this Lacheneur was playing a 
role now that made him, Lecoq, wild with de • 
spair. 

He next had recourse to a mode of investiga- 
tion which is generally the last resort of the po- 
lice, but which is generally successful, because 
it is so sensible and simple. 

He determined to examine all the books in 
which the law compels the proprietors of hotels 
and lodging-houses to keep a record of their 
guests. 

Eising long before daybreak, and going to bed 
late at night, he spent all his time in visiting the 
hotels, furnished houses, and lodgings in Paris. 

Vain search! E'ot once did he find the name 
of Lacheneur that haunted his brain. Was there 
really such a name? Was it not a pseudonym, 
invented for convenience? He had not found it 
even in the Almonach Botlin, where one finds 
all the most singular and absurd names in 
France — those which are formed of the most 
fantastic mingling of syllables. 

But nothing could daunt him or turn him from 
the almost impossible task to which he had de- 
voted himself. His obstinacy amounted well- 
nigh to monomania. 

He was no longer subject to occasional out- 
bursts of anger, which were quickly repressed; 
he lived in a state of constant exasperation, 
which impaired the clearness of his mind not a 
little. 

Ho more theories, subtle reasoning, and in- 
genious deductions. He pursued his search with- 
out method, without order, and much as Father 
Absinthe might have done when under the infiu- 
ence of alcohol. 

Perhaps he had come to rely less upon his own 
shrewdness than upon chance to drive away the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 235 

shadows which he divined, which he felt, which 
he breathed. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

If one throws a heavy stone into a lake it pro- 
duces a very considerable commotion, and the 
whole- mass of water is agitated. But the great 
movement lasts only for a moment; the waves 
diminish in violence in proportion as the circles 
enlarge, the surface regains its smoothness, and 
soon no trace remains of the stone, now buried 
in the depths below. 

So it is with events that occur in our daily life, 
however momentous they may appear. It seems 
as if their impression would endure for years — 
nonsense ! Time closes over them more quickly 
than the water of the lake; and more rapidly 
than the stone, they sink into the depths of the 
past. 

At the end of a fortnight, the frightful crime 
committed in the Widow Chupin’s saloon — the 
triple murder which had made all Paris shudder, 
with which all the papers had been full, was 
forgotten as entirely as any commonplace assas- 
sination of the reign of Charlemagne. 

Only at the Palais de Justice, at the Prefecture, 
and at the prison was it remembered. 

The efforts of M. Segmuller — and Heaven 
knows that he had spared none— liad met with 
no better success than those of Lecoq. 

Close interrogations, skillfully managed exam- 
inations, sharp questions, insinuations, menaces, 
promises, all spent themselves in vain against 
that invisible force — the strongest man has at 
his disposal — the force of absolute denial. 

One and the same spirit seemed to animate the 
Widow Chupin, Polyte, Toinon, the virtuous, 
and Mme. Milner, the mistress of the Hotel de 
Mariembourg. 


236 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Their depositions proved that they were all in 
league with the accomplice; and that they all 
acted in obedience to the same policy. But what 
did this knowledge avail? 

The attitude of these witnesses never varied. 
It might happen, sometimes, that their looks 
gave the lie to their denials ; but one could read 
in their eyes their unshaken determination to 
conceal the truth. 

There were moments when the judge, over- 
powered by a sense of the insufl&ciency of purely 
moral weapons, almost regretted the overthrow 
of the Inquisition. 

Yes, in the presence of these allegations, whose 
impudence almost amounted to insult, he no 
longer wondered at the barbarities practiced by 
the judges of the Middle Ages — the rack which 
broke the muscles of its victims, the red-hot 
pincers, and all those horrible tortures which 
tore out the truth with the flesh itself. 

The manner of the murderer svas unaltered, or, 
if it were, it was only because he played his part 
with greater perfection each day, like a man who 
has become accustomed to strange clothing, and 
who is no longer made uncomfortable by it. 

His assurance in the presence of the judge had 
increased, as if he were more sure of himself, 
and as if he had in some way learned that the 
prosecution had made no progress whatever. 

During one of his later examinations, he had 
ventured to say, with something very like irony : 

“Why do you keep me so long in the secret 
cells, Monsieur le Juge? Am I never to be set 
at liberty, or sent to the court of assizes? Am I 
to suffer much longer on account of the idea that 
has taken possession of you (how, I cannot tell), 
that I am a' great personage?” 

“I shall keep you until you have confessed,” 
M. Segmuller had responded. 

“Confessed what?” 

“Oh! you know very well.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


237 


This strange man had then shrugged his 
shoulders, and in that half-despondent, half- 
mocking tone which was habitual to him, he 
had responded: 

“In that case there is no hope of my ever leav- 
ing this accursed prison!” 

It was by reason of this conviction, undoubt- 
edly, that he seemed to be making preparation 
for an indefinite stay. 

He had succeeded in obtaining a portion of the 
contents of his trunk ; and he manifested an al- 
most childish joy in once more entering into pos- 
session of his property. 

Thanks to the money which had been found 
upon his person and deposited with the clerk, he 
was able to procure many little luxuries, which 
are never denied prisoners who have not yet been 
tried for whatever may be the charges against 
them; they hav^e a right to be considered inno- 
cent until the jury has decided to the contrary. 

To pass away the time, he had asked for a 
volume of Beranger’s poems, and as his request 
had been granted he spent most of the day in 
learning songs by heart and in singing them, in 
a loud voice, and with considerable taste. 

He pretended that he was cultivating a talent 
which would be useful to him when he was again 
at liberty. 

For he had no doubt of his acquittal; at least, 
so he declared. 

He was anxious about the date of his trial ; but 
was not in the least anxious about the result. 

He appeared despondent only when he spoke 
of his profession. He pined for the stage. He 
almost wept when he thought of his fantastic, 
many-colored costumes, of his audience, and of 
his sallies of wit, accompanied by bursts of noisy 
music. 

In this demeanor he had become more frank, 
more communicative, more subm.issi 7e; in short, 
a better fellow. 


238 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


It was with marked empressement that he 
embraced every opportunity to babble about his 
past. He liked to recount his adventures during 
his roving life with M. Simpson, the showman. 
He had, of course, traveled a great deal; and he 
remembered all he had seen, and possessed an 
inexhaustible fund of amusing stories, with 
which he entertained his keepers. 

And every word, and even the slightest action, 
was characterized by such naturalness that the 
employes of the prison no longer doubted the 
truth of his assertions. 

The head-keeper was more difficult to convince. 

He had declared that this pretend ed 'buffoon 
must be a dangerous criminal who had escaped 
from the galleys, and who was for this reason 
determined to conceal his antecedents. Believing 
this, he had left no means untried to prove it. 

For more than a fortnight May was submitted 
to the scrutiny of members of the police force 
and detectives, public and private. 

Not one of them recognized him. His photo- 
graph had been sent to all the prisons and police 
headquarters throughout the empire; but not 
one of the officials remembered May’s features. 

Other circumstances occurred, each of which 
had its influence, and they all spoke in favor of 
the prisoner. 

The second bureau of the Prefecture found 
positive traces of the existence of a foreign artist 
named Tringlot, who was probably the man re- 
ferred to in May’s story. This Tringlot had 
been dead several years. 

Moreover, inquiries which had been made in 
Germany, revealed the fact that a certain Mon- 
sieur Simpson was very well known in that coun- 
try, having achieved great renown as a circus 
manager. 

Before so many proofs, the head- keeper was 
forced to yield, and he openly confessed that he 
had been mistaken. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


239 


“The prisoner, May,” he wrote to the judge, 
“is really and truly what he pretends to be. 
There can be no further doubt on the subject.” 

This was done at the suggestion of Gevrol. 

So M. Segmuller and Lecoq remained alone in 
their opinion. 

It is true that their opinion was worthy, at 
least, of consideration, since they alone knew all 
the details of the investigation which had been 
conducted with strict secrecy. 

But that mattered little. To struggle on 
against all the world is always unpleasant, and 
not a little dangerous, even if one is a thousand 
times right. 

The “May affair” had become notorious among 
the members of the police force; and Lecoq was 
assailed by rough jokes whenever he appeared at 
the Prefecture. Nor did the judge escape en- 
tirely. 

More than one colleague, on meeting him in 
the corridor, inquired, with a smile, what he 
had done with his Gaspard Hauser, with his 
man in the Iron Mask, with his mysterious 
mountebank. 

Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were afflicted 
with the angry impatience every man feels when 
he is absolutely certain that he is right, but has 
no means of proving it. 

They both lost their appetites; they grew thin 
and haggard. 

“ilfoTZ Dieu! ” exclaimed the judge some- 
times, “why did Escorval fall! Had it not been 
for his accursed mishap, he would have been 
obliged to endure these perplexities, and I — I 
should be enjoying myself like other people.” 

“And I thought myself so shrewd!” mur- 
mured the young detective. 

But the idea of yielding never once occurred 
to them. Although their temperaments were 
diametrically opposed to each other, both men 
had sworn to solve this tantalizing enigma. 


240 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Lecoq, indeed, had resolved to renounce all 
other claims upon his time, and to devote him- 
self entirely to the study of this case. 

“Henceforth,” he said to M. Segmuller, “I 
also constitute myself a prisoner; and although 
he will not see me, I shall not lose sight of him!” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Between the cell occupied by May and the 
roof of the prison was a loft, the ceiling of 
which was so low that a man of average height 
could not stand upright in the room. A few 
straggling raj^s of sunlight, peering through the 
interstices of the wall, relieved the dense gloom 
but slightly. 

In this inattractive abode, Lecoq, one fine 
morning, established himself. 

It was at the hour when the prisoner was tak- 
ing his daily walk, under the surveillance of two 
keepers, and the zealous detective could, without 
restraint, proceed to his work of installation. 

Armed with a pickax, he removed two or three 
stones from the floor, making a small aperture, 
and then set himself at work to make another 
opening through the timbers below. 

The hole which he made was in the form of a 
tunnel. Very large at the top, it had dwindled 
to an opening not more than two-thirds of an 
inch in diameter when it pierced the ceiling of 
the cell below. 

The place where this aperture was made had 
been chosen so skillfully in advance that it was 
in the midst of some stains and patches of mould ; 
hence it was impossible for the prisoner to detect 
it from below. 

While Lecoq was at work, the keeper of the 
prison and Gevrol, who had insisted upon ac- 
companying him, appeared upon the threshold of 
the loft, laughing and sneering. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


241 


“So this is to be your observatory, Monsieur 
Lecoq?” remarked Gevrol. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“You will not be very comfortable here.” 

“I shall be less uncomfortable than you sup- 
pose. I have brought a large blanket, and I 
shall stretch myself out upon the floor and sleep 
here. ’ ’ 

. “So that, night and day, you will have your 
eye on the prisoner?” 

“Yes, night and day.” 

“Without giving yourself time to eat or 
drink?” inquired Gevrol. 

“Pardon! Father Absinthe will bring me 
my meals, execute any commissions I may have, 
and take my place on guard, if necessary.” 

The jealous General laughed loudly; but the 
laugh was a trifle constrained. 

“Well, I pity you,” he said. 

“Very possibly,” 

“Do you know what you will look like, with 
your eye glued to that hole?” 

“Say it! You need be under no constraint.” 

“Ah, well! you will look like one of those silly 
naturalists who put all sorts of little insects 
under a magnifying glass, and spend their lives 
in watching them.” 

Lecoq had finished his work ; he rose from the 
floor. 

“No comparison could be more just. General,” 
he replied. “You have guessed it. To these 
naturalists, of whom you speak so slightingly, I 
owe the idea I am about putting into execution. 
By dint of studying these little creatures — as 
you say — under a microscope, these patient and 
gifted men are enabled to discover the habits and 
the instincts of the insect world. Very well. 
What they can do with an insect, I will do with 
a man!” 

“Oh, ho!” said the keeper, considerably as- 
tonished. 


242 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Yes; this is my plan, monsieur,” continued 
Lecoq. “I wish to learn this prisoner’s secret; 
I will have it. I have sworn it, and I shall 
have it; because, however strong his courage 
may be, he will have his moments of weakness, 
and then I shall be there. I shall be there, if 
his will fails him, if believing himself alone he 
lets his mask fall for a moment, if he forgets his 
part for an instant, if some indiscreet word es- 
capes him in his slumber, if despair elicits a 
groan, a gesture, a look — I shall be there.” 

The implacable resolution that vibrated in the 
young man’s voice made a deep impression upon 
the keeper. 

For an instant he was a believer in Lecoq’s 
theory; and he was impressed by the strange- 
ness of this conflict between a -prisoner, deter- 
mined to preserve the secret of his personality, 
and the prosecution, equally determined to wrest 
it from him. 

“Upon my word! my boy, you are not want- 
ing in courage and energy.” 

“Although it is misdirected,” growled Gevrol. 

He made this remark very slowly and delib- 
erately; but in his secret soul he was by no 
means convinced of its truth. Faith is conta- 
gious, and he was troubled in spite of himself 
by Lecoq’s imperturbable assurance. 

What if this debutant in his profession should 
be right, and he, Gevrol, the oracle of the pre- 
fecture, wrong!. What shame and ridicule would 
be his portion ! 

But once again he inwardly swore that this 
inexperienced man could be no match for an old 
veteran, and he added : 

“The chief of police must have more money 
than he knows what to do with, to pay two men 
for such a nonsensical job as this.” 

Lecoq did not reply to this slighting remark. 
For more than a fortnight the General had im- 
proved every opportunity of making himself dis- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


243 


agreeable so well that the young man doubted 
his power to control his temper if the discussion 
were continued. 

It would be better to keep silence, and to work 
and wait for success. To succeed ! that would 
be revenge enough ! 

Moreover, he was impatient to see these un- 
welcome visitors depart. Perhaps he believed 
that Gevrol was quite capable of attracting the 
prisoner’s attention by some unusual sound. 

As soon as they went away, Lecoq hastily 
spread his blanket, and stretched himself out 
upon it in such a position that he could alter- 
nately apply his eye and his ear to the aperture. 

In this position he had an admirable view of 
the cell below. He could see the door, the bed, 
the table, the chair; only the small space near 
the window, and the window itself, were beyond 
his range of observation. 

He had scarcely completed his survey when he 
heard the bolts rattle ; the prisoner was returning 
from his walk. 

He seemed in excellent spirits, and was just 
completing what was, undoubtedly, a very inter- 
esting story, since the keeper lingered for a mo- 
ment to hear the conclusion. Lecoq was de- 
lighted with the success of his experiment. He 
could hear as easily as he could see. Eg^ch sound 
reached his ear distinctly; he had not lost a 
single word of the recital, which was amusing, 
but rather coarse. 

The guard departed. May walked across his 
cell a few times, then he took up his volume of 
“Beranger,” and for an hour or more seemed 
completely engrossed in its contents. Finally, 
he threw himself down upon the bed. 

He remained there until the hour of his even- 
ing repast, when he rose and ate with an excel- 
lent appetite. Then he resumed the study of 
his book, and did not ^ go to bed until the lights 
were extinguished. 


244 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Lecoq knew that during the night his eyes 
would not serve him, but, for all that, he hoped 
that some tell-tale word would escape the pris- 
oner. 

In this expectation he was disappointed. May 
tossed restlessly upon his pallet; he sighed, and 
one might have thought that he was sobbing, 
but not a syllable escaped his lips. • 

He remained in bed until very late the next 
morning; but on hearing the bell sound the 
hour of breakfast, eleven o’clock, ho sprang 
from histjouch with a bound, and after capering 
about his cell for a few moments, he began to 
sing, in a loud and cheerful voice, the old ditty: 

“Diogene 

Sous ton manteau 

Libre et content, je ris, je bois sans gene — ” 

He did not cease his singing until the keeper 
entered his cell to bring him his breakfast. 

The day differed in no respect from the one 
that had preceded it, nor did the night. The 
same might be said of the next day and of the 
days which followed it. 

To sing, to eat, to sleep, to care for his hands 
and his nails — such was the life of the so-called 
buffoon. His manner, which never varied, was 
that of a naturally cheerful man, terribly bored. 

Such was the perfection of this enigmatical 
person’s acting, that Lecoq, after six days and 
nights of constant surveillance, had detected 
nothing decisive, nor even surprising. 

Yet he did not despair. He had noticed that, 
every morning, while the employes of the prison 
were busy in distributing the food to the prison- 
ers, this man repeated his song of Diogenes. 

“Evidently this song is a signal,” Lecoq said 
to himself. “ What is going on there by the 
window that I cannot see? I will know to-mor- 
row.” 

The following morning he arranged that May 
should be taken on his morning walk at half- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


245 


past ten o’clock, and he then insisted that the 
keeper should accompany him to the prisoner’s 
cell. 

That worthy functionary was not very well 
pleased with this change in the usual order of 
things. 

“What do you wish to show me?” he asked. 
“What is it that is so very curious?” 

“Perhaps nothing,” replied Lecoq, “perhaps 
something of great importance.” 

Eleven o’clock sounding soon after, he began 
singing the prisoner’s song: 

“Diogene 
Sous ton manteau — ” 

He had scarcely finished the second line, when 
a bit of bread, no larger than a bullet, adroitly 
thrown through the window, dropped at his feet. 

A thunderbolt falling in May’s cell would not 
have terrified the superintendent as much as did 
this inoffensive projectile. 

He stood in silent dismay; his mouth wide 
open, his eyes starting from their sockets, as if 
he distrusted the evidence of his own senses. 

What a disgrace! An instant before he would 
have staked his life upon the inviolability of the 
secret cells. He beheld his prison dishonored — 
sneered at. 

“A communication! a communication!” he 
repeated, with a horrified air. 

Quick as lightning, Lecoq picked up the mis- 
sile, and held it up in triumph. 

“I said that this man was in communication 
with his friends,” he murmured. 

Lecoq’s evident delight changed the superin- 
tendent’s stupor into fury. 

“Ah ! my prisoners are writing!” he exclaimed, 
wild with passion. “My guards are acting 
as postmen ! By my faith, this matter shall be 
looked into !” 

He rushed toward the door; Lecoq stopped him. 


246 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What are you going to do, -monsieur?” he 
asked. 

“I am going to call all the employes of this 
prison together, and inform them that there is a 
traitor among them, and that I must know who 
he is, as I wish to make an example of him. 
And if, in twenty-four hours from now, the cul- 
prit has not been discovered, every man con- 
nected with this prison shall be removed.” 

- Again he start^ to leave the room, and Lecoq, 
this time, had almost to use force to detain him. 

“Be calm, sir; be calm,” he entreated. 

“I will punish — ” 

“Yes, yes — I understand that — but wait until 
you have regained your self-possession. It is 
possible that the guilty party may be one of the 
prisoners who aid in the distribution of food 
every morning.” - 

‘ ‘ W hat does that matter ? ’ ’ 

“Pardon! It matters a great deal. If you 
noise this discovery abroad, if you say a single 
word about it, we shall never discover the truth. 
The traitor will not be fool enough to confess 
his guilt. We must be silent and wait. We 
will keep a close watch and detect the culprit in 
the very act.” 

These objections were so sensible that the 
keeper yielded. 

“So be it,” he 'sighed, “I will be patient. >But 
let us see the missive that was inclosed in this 
morsel of bread.” 

Lecoq would not consent to this proposition. 

“I warned M. Segmuller that there would 
probably be some new developments this morn- 
ing; and he must be waiting for me in his office. 

I must reserve the pleasure of opening this en- 
velope for him.” 

The superintendent’s face clouded. He would 
have given a great deal could he have kept this 
affair a secret; but that was entirely out of the 
question. “Let us go and find the judge, then,” 
said he, despondently. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


•^‘47 

They started, and on their way Lecoq endeav- 
ored to convince the worthy man that ho was 
quite wrong to deplore a circumstance which 
would be of incalculable benefit to the prooecu- 
tion. Had he, until now, supposed himself more 
cunning than his prisoners? What an illusion! 
Had not the ingenuity of the prisoner always de- 
fied, and will it not always defy, x\iq finesse oi 
his guardians? 

But they had reached the office, and g-t the 
sight of them, M. Segmuller and his clerk both 
sprang from their seats. They read startling 
:iews in the face of the young detective. 

“What is it?” demanded the judge, eagerly. 

Lecoq’ s sole response was to place the precious 
morsel of bread upon the* desk. The judge 
opened it. It contained a tiny scrap of the thin- 
. nest tissue paper. 

M. Segmuller unfolded it, and smoothed it 
upon the palm of his hand. As soon as he 
glanced at it, his brow contracted. 

“Ah! this note is written in cipher,” he ex- 
claimed, striking his clinched fist violently upon 
his desk. 

“We must not lose patience,” said Lecoq, 
tranquilly. 

He took the slip of paper, and read aloud the 
numbers that were inscribed upon it. They were 
as follows, separated by commas: 

235 , 15 , 3 , 8 , 25 , 2 , 16 , 208 , 5 , 360 , 4 , 36 , 19 , 
7 , 14 , 118 , 84 , 23 , 9 , 40 , 11 , 99 . 

“And so we shall learn nothing from this note;” 
murmured the keeper. 

“Why not?” responded the smiling clerk. 
“There is no system of cipher which cannot be 
read with a little skill and patience. There are 
some people who make it their business.” 

“You are right,” approved Lecoq. “Audi, 
myself, once had a knack at it.” 

“What!” exclaimed the judge; “do you hope 
to find the key to this cipher?” 


248 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“With time, yes.” 

He was about placing the paper in his breast- 
pocket, but the judge begged him to examine it 
further. 

He did so; and after a little, his face bright- 
ened, and striking his forehead with his open 
palm, he cried : # 

“I have found it!” 

An exclamation of surprise, and possibly of 
incredulity, escaped the judge, the keeper, and 
the clerk. ^ ' 

“At least, I think so,” added Lecoq, more 
cautiously. “The prisoner and his accomplice 
have, if I am not mistaken, adopted the system 
called the double-book cipher. This system is 
very simple. The correspondents first agree 
upon some particular book; and both obtain a 
copy of the same edition.” 

“What if one desires to communicate with the 
other?” 

“He opens the book hap- hazard, and begins by 
writing the number of the page. 

“Then he must seek, upon that page, the words 
necessary to give expression to his thought. If 
the first word which he desires to write is the 
twentieth word printed on the page, he writes 
the number 20; then he begins to count one, 
two, three, until he finds the next word) that he 
wishes to use. If this word happens to be the 
sixth, he writes the figure 6; and he continues 
in this way until he has written all he wishes to 
communicate. 

“You see, now, how the correspondent who 
receives this missive must begin. He finds the 
page indicated, and each figure represents a 
word.” 

“Nothing could be more clear, ” said the judge, 
approvingly. 

“If this note that I hold here,” pursued Le- 
coq, “had been exchanged between two persons 
who were at liberty, it would be folly to attempt 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


249 


its translation. This simple system is the only 
one which has completely baffled the efforts of 
the curious, simply because there is no way of 
ascertaining the book agreed upon. 

“But such is not the case here; May is a pris- 
oner, and he has but one book in his possession, 
‘The Songs of Beranger.’ Let this book be sent 
for^ — ” 

The keeper was actually enthusiastic. 

“I will run and fetch it myself,” he inter- 
r;pted. 

But Lecoq, with a gesture, detained him. 

“Above all, monsieur, take care that May 
does not discover his book has been tampered 
with. If he has returned from his promenade, 
make some excuse to have him sent out of his 
cell again ; and do not allow him to return there 
while we are using his book.” 

“Oh, trust me!” replied the superintendent. 

He left the room, and so intense was his zeal 
that he was back again in less than a quarter of 
an hour, bringing in triumph a little volume in 
32mo. 

With a trembling hand, Lecoq opened to page 
235, and began to count. 

The fifteenth word on the page was I; the 
third after, was the word have; the eighth fol- . 
lowing that, was told; the twenty-fifth, her; 
the second, your; the sixteenth, wishes. 

Hence the meaning of those six numbers was : 

“I have told her your wishes.” 

The three persons who had witnessed this dis- 
play of shrewdness could not restrain their ad- 
miration. 

“Bravo! Lecoq,” exclaimed the judge. 

“I will no longer bet a hundred to one on 
May,” thought the clerk. 

But Lecoq was still busily engaged in deci- 
phering the missive, and soon, in a voice trem- 
bling with gratified vanity, he read the entire 
note aloud. It was as follows : 


250 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I have told her your wishes; she submits. 
Our safety is assured; we are waiting your or- 
ders to act. Hope! Courage!” 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

What a disappointment, after the fever of 
anxiety and expectation that had held the wit- 
nesses of this scene motionless and breathless! 

This short and unintelligible epistle afforded 
no information whatever upon the subject in 
which all present were so deeply interested. 

The light of hope which had sparkled in M. 
Segmuller’s eye a moment before, faded; and 
Goquet returned to his former opinion, that the 
prisoner had the advantage over his accusers. 

“How unfortunate,” remarked the superin- 
tendent, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice, 
“that so much trouble, and such marvelous pen- 
etration, should be wasted!” 

Lecoq, whose confidence seemed unalterable, 
regarding him with a bantering air, replied : 

“So monsieur thinks I have wasted my time! 
Such is not my opinion. This scrap of paper 
undeniably proves that if any person has been 
mistaken in regard to the identity of the pris- 
oner, it certainly was not I.” 

“Very well. M. Gevrol and I may have been 
mistaken; no one is infallible. But have you 
learned anything more than you knew before? 
Have you made any progress?” 

“Why, yes, monsieur. Now that people know 
the prisoner is not what he pretends to be, instead 
of annoying and hampering me, perhaps they 
will aid to discover who he really is.” 

Lecoq’s tone, and his allusion to the difficulties 
he had encountered, wounded the keeper. But 
precisely because he felt the blood mount to his 
forehead under this just reproof, he resolved to 
cut short this discussion with an inferior. 

“You are right,” said he, sarcastically. “This 


MONSIEUR jjECOQ. 


251 


May must be a very great and illustrious per- 
sonage. Only, my dear Monsieur Lecoq (for 
there is an only), do me the favor to explain 
how such an important personage could disap- 
pear, and the police not be advised of it? A 
man of rank, such as you suppose this prisoner 
to be, usually has a family, friends, relatives, pro- 
teges, and extended connections, and yet not a sin- 
gle person has lifted his voice during the three 
weeks that this May has been under my charge ! 
Come, admit that you have not thought of this.” 

The keeper had just advanced the only serious 
objection that could be found against the theory 
advanced by the prosecution. 

But Lecoq had seen it before. It had not been 
once out of his mind; and he had racked his 
brain to find some satisfactory explanation. 

Undoubtedly he would have made some angry 
retort, as people are wont to do when their an- 
tagonists discover the weak spot in their armor, 
had not M. Segmuller interposed. 

“All these recriminations do no good,” he 
remarked, calmly; “we can make no progress 
while these continue. It would be much wiser 
to decide upon the course to be pursued under 
the present circumstances.” 

Thus reminded of the present situation of 
affairs, the young man smiled; all his rancor 
was forgotten. 

“There is, I think, but one course to pursue,” 
he replied, modestly; “and I believe it will be 
successful by reason of its simplicity. We must 
substitute a communication of our own composi- 
tion for this one. That will not be at all diffi- 
cult, since I have the key to the cipher. I shall 
only be obliged to purchase a similar volume of 
Beranger’s songs; and May, believing that he is 
addressing his accomplice, will respond in all 
sincerity, and will reveal everj^thing, perhaps — ” 

“Pardon!” interrupted the keeper, “how will 
you obtain possession of his reply?” 


252 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Ah! you ask me too much. I know the way 
in which his letters have reached him. For the 
rest, I will watch and find a way — never fear!” 

Groquet could not conceal an approving grin. 
If he had happened to have ten francs on hand 
he would have risked them all on Lecoq just 
then. 

“First I will replace this missive by one of 
my own composition. To-morrow, at the break- 
fast hour, if the prisoner gives the signal, Fa- 
ther Absinthe will throw the morsel of bread in- 
closing the note through the window, while I 
from my observatory watch the effect.” 

He was so delighted with this plan that he at 
once rang the bell, and when the messenger ap- 
peared, he gave him a ten-sous piece and requested 
him to go at once and purchase some of the thin- 
nest tissue paper. 

When he was in possession of the paper, which 
was apparently exactly like that upon which the 
note was written, he seated himself at the clerk’s 
desk, and armed with the volume of Beranger’s 
poems, he began the composition of his missive, 
copying as closely as possible the forms of the 
figures used by the unknown correspondent. 

This task did not occupy him more than ten 
minutes. Fearing to commit some blunder, he re- 
produced the words of the original letter, with 
but little change in the words themselves, but 
with an entire change of meaning. 

His note read as follows : 

“I have told her your wishes; she does not 
submit. Our safety is threatened. We are 
awaiting your orders. I tremble. ’ ’ 

When this was completed, he rolled up the 
paper and inclosing it in the fragment of bread, 
he said: 

“To-morrow we shall learn something!” 

To-morrow ! The twenty-four hours that sep- 
arated the young man from the decisive moment 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


253 


seemed a century. What expedients he resorted 
to, in order to hasten the slow passage of time. 

He explained to Father Absinthe clearly and 
minutely what he would have to do, and sure of 
being understood, and certain that he would be 
obeyed, he went back to his loft. 

The evening seemed long, and the midnight 
interminable, for he found it impossible to close 
an eyelid. 

He rose at day-break and saw that his pris- 
oner was awake and was sitting on the foot of 
the bed. Soon he sprang up and paced restlessly 
to and fro. He was evidently in an unusually 
agitated frame of mind; he gesticulated wildly, 
and at intervals certain words — always the same 
words — escaped his lips. 

“What misery! My God! what misery!” he 
repeated again and again. 

“Ah! my boy,” thought Lecoq, “you are anx- 
ious about the daily letter which you failed to 
receive. Patience, patience! One of my writ- 
ing will soon arrive.” 

L; At last the young detective heard the stir that 
always preceded the distribution of food. People 
were running to and fro, sabots clicked noisily 
in the corridors, the guards were talking loudly. 

Eleven o’clock was sounded by the old clock ; 
the prisoner began his song : 

“Diogene 
Sous ton manteau 
Libre et content — ” 

He did not finish the third line; the slight 
sound caused by the fragment of bread as it fell 
upon the stone floor made him pause suddenly. 

Lecoq, at the opening of the ceiling above, 
was holding his breath, and watching with all 
his eyes. 

He did not miss a single movement of the pris- 
oner — not so much as the quiver of an eyelid. 

May looked first at the window, then all about 


254 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


him, as if it were impossible for him to explain 
the arrival of this projectile. 

It was not until some little time had elapsed 
that he decided to pick it up. He held it in the 
hollow of his hand, and examined it with appar- 
ent curiosity. His features expressed the most 
profound surprise. One would have sworn that 
he was innocent of all complicity. 

Soon a smile appeared upon his lips. With a 
slight shrug of the shoulders, which might be 
interpreted: “Am I a fool?” and with a rapid 
movement, he broke open the morsel of bread. 
The sight of the paper which it contained seemed 
to amaze him. 

“ What does all this mean?” wondered Lecoq. 
The prisoner had opened the note, and was ex- 
amining, with knitted brows, the figures which 
were apparently^estitute of ail meaning to him. 

Then suddenly he rushed to the door of his 
cell, and, hammering upon it with his fists, he 
cried: “Here! guard! here!” 

A keeper came running in answer to the sum- 
mons. Lecoq heard his footsteps in the corridor. 

“What do you want?” the man cried, through 
the opening in the cell door. 

“I wish to speak to the judge.” 

“Very well. He shall be informed.” 

“Immediately, if you please. I wish to make 
some revelations.” 

“He shall be sent for immediately.” 

Lecoq waited to hear no more. 

He tore down the narrow staircase leading 
from the loft, and rushed to the Palais de Justice 
to tell M. Segmuller what had happened. 

“What can this mean?” he wondered as lie 
went. “Are we approaching a denoument? This 
much is certain, the prisoner was not deceived 
b}^ my note. He could decipher it only with the 
aid of his volume of ‘Beranger;’ he has not 
touched the book, therefore he has not read the 
note.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


255 


M. Segmuller was no less amazed than the 
young detective. Together they hastened to the 
prison, followed by the clerk, who was the judge’s 
inevitable shadow. 

They had reached the end of the Galerie d’ In- 
struction, when they encountered the keeper, who 
was coming all in a flutter, greatly excited by 
that important word, “revelation.” 

The worthy official undoubtedly wished to 
make known his opinion; but the judge checked 
him, by saying: 

“I know all about it; and I am coming.” 

When they reached the narrow corridor lead- 
ing to the secret cells, Lecoq passed on in ad- 
vance of the rest of the party. 

He said to himself that by stealing upon him 
unawares, he might possibly find the prisoner 
engaged in surreptitiously reading the note; and 
that, in any case, he would have an opportunity 
to glance at the interior of the cell. 

May was seated by the table, his head resting 
upon his hands. 

At the grating of the bolt, drawn by the hand 
of the head -keeper himself, he rose, smoothed his 
hair, and remained standing in a respectful atti- 
tude, apparently waiting for the visitors to ad- 
dress him. 

“Did you send for me?” inquired the judge. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“You have, I understand, some revelation to 
make to me.” 

“I have something of importance to tell you.” 

“Very well! these gentlemen will retire.” 

M. Segmuller had already turned to Lecoq and 
the keeper to request them to withdraw, when a 
movement from the prisoner checked his words. 

“It is not necessary,” May remarked ; “I am, 
on the contrary, very well pleased to speak be- 
fore everybody.” 

“Speak, then.” 

May did not oblige him to repeat the order. 


256 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He assumed a three-quarters position, inflated 
his chest, threw his head back, as he had done 
from the very beginning of his examinations 
when he wished to make a display of his elo- 
quence. 

“It shall be fco* you to say, gentlemen, whether 
I am, or am not an honest man. The profession 
matters little. One can, perhaps, be the clown 
of a traveling show, and yet be an honest man — 
a man of honor. ” 

“Oh, spare us your reflections!” 

“Very well, monsieur, that suits me exactly. 
To be brief, then, here is a little paper which was 
thrown into my cell a few moments ago. There 
are numbers upon it which may mean some- 
thing; but I have examined it, and it is all 
Greek to me.” 

He handed it to the judge, and added: 

“It was rolled up in a bit of bread. ” 

The violence of this unexpected blow struck 
his visitors dumb; but the prisoner, without 
seeming to notice the effect he had produced, 
continued : 

“I suppose that the person who threw it made 
a mistake in the window. I know very well 
that it is a mean piece of business to denounce a 
companion in prison. It is cowardly; and one 
is very likely to get himself into trouble; but a 
man must be prudent, when he is accused of be- 
ing an assassin as I am, and when he is threat- 
ened with a great unpleasantness.” 

A terribly significant gesture of severing the 
head from the body left no doubt whatever of 
what he meant by an unpleasantness. 

“And yet I am innocent,” he murmured. 

The judge, by this time, had recovered the 
full possession of his faculties. He concentrated 
in one glance all the power of his will, and look- 
ing intently at the prisoner: 

“You lie!” he said, slowly; “it was for you 
that this note was intended.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


257 


“For me! Then I must be the greatest of 
fools, or why should I have called you to show 
it to you? For me? In that case, why did I 
not keep it? Who knew, who could know that 
I had received it?^’ 

All this was said with such a marvelous sem- 
blance of honesty, his gaze was so frank and 
open, his voice rang so true, his reasoning was 
so specious, that the keeper’s doubts returned. 

“And what if I could prove that you are 
uttering a falsehood?” insisted M. Segmuller. 
“What if I could prove it — here and noW?” 

“You would be the liar! Oh! monsieur, par- 
don! Excuse me, I mean — ” 

But the judge was not in a frame of mind to 
stickle for nicety of expression. 

He motioned May to be silent; and turning to 
Lecoq, he said : 

“Show the prisoner that you have discovered 
the key to his secret correspondence.” 

A sudden change passed over the features of 
the accused. 

“Ah! it is this agent of police who has found 
it,” he said, in an altered tone. “The same 
agent who assures me that I am a grand seig- 
neur.” 

He turned disdainfully to Lecoq, and added: 

“Under these circumstances there is no help 
for me. When the police are absolutely deter- 
mined that a man shall be guilty, it will be 
proved that he is guilty; everybody knows that. 
And when a prisoner receives no letters, an agent 
who wishes such to be the case knows how to 
send them to him.” 

There was such an expression of contempt 
upon the prisoner’s face that Lecoq could scarce- 
ly refrain from making an angry reply. 

He restrained this desire, however, in obedi- 
ence to a warning gesture from the judge, and 
taking from the table the volume of Beranger, 
he endeavored to prove to the prisoner that each 


258 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


numbftr in the note corresponded to a word on 
the page indicated, and that all these words 
formed an intelligible whole. 

This overpowering evidence did not seem to 
trouble May in the least. After expressing the 
same admiration for this novel system of corre- 
spondence that a child would show for a new toy, 
he declared his belief that no one could equal the 
police in such machinations. 

What could one do in the face of such obsti- 
nacy? 

M. Segmuller did not even attempt to argue 
the point, and retired, followed by his compan- 
ions. 

Until they reached the superintendent’s office, 
he did not utter a word; then he threw himself 
down into an arm-chair, saying: “We must 
confess ourselves beaten. This man will always 
remain what he is now — an enigma.” 

“But what is the meaning of the comedy he 
has just played? I do not understand it,” said 
the keeper. 

“Why,” responded Lecoq, “do you not see 
that he hoped to persuade the judge that the first 
note had been written by me, in order to con- 
vince him of the truth of my theory? It was a 
hazardous project; but the importance of the re- 
sult to be gained must have emboldened him to 
attempt it. Had he succeeded, I should have 
been disgraced; and he would have remained 
May — without further molestation, in the eyes 
of the world. But how could he know that I had 
discovered his correspondence, and that I was 
watching him from the loft above? That is 
something which will never be explained, prob- 
ably.” 

The keeper and the detective exchanged glances 
of mutual distrust. 

“Eh! eh!” thought the director, “why, in- 
deed, might not that note which fell at my feet 
the other day have been the work of this crafty 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


259 


fellow? This Father Absinthe might have served 
him in the first instance as well as he did in the 
last.” 

“Who knows,” Lecoq was saying to himself, 
“but what this worthy keeper has confided every- 
thing to Gevrol? If he has, my jealous General 
would not scruple to play me such a trick as 
this.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Goquet, “it is really a pity 
that such a well-mounted comedy did not suc- 
ceed.” 

These words startled the judge from his reverie. 

“A shameful farce,” he said, “and one that I 
would never have authorized, had I not been 
blinded by a mad longing to arrive at the truth. 
It brings the sacred majesty of justice into con- 
tempt to make her the accomplice of such base 
subterfuges!” 

Lecoq, on hearing these words, became white 
with wrath, and a tear of rage glittered in his 
eye. It was the second affront within an hour. 
Insulted, first, by the prisoner, afterward by the 
judge. 

“I am defeated,” thought he. “I must con- 
fess it. It is Fate! Ah! if I had but succeeded!” 

Disappointment alone had impelled M. Seg' 
muller to utter these harsh words; they were 
harsh and unjust; he regretted them, and did all 
in his power to make Lecoq forget them. 

For they met every day after this unfortunate 
incident; and every morning, when the young 
detective caihe to give an account of his investi- 
gations, they had a long conference. 

For Lecoq still continued his efforts; still la- 
bored with an obstinacy intensified by constant 
sneers; still pursued his investigations with that 
cold and determined anger which keeps one’s 
faculties on the alert for years. 

But the judge was utterly discouraged. 

“We must abandon this attempt,” said he. 
“All the means of detection have been exhausted. 


260 


MONSIEUR LECOQ, 


I give it up. The prisoner will go to the Court 
of Assizes, and will be acquitted or condemned 
under the name of May. I will trouble myself 
no more about the affair. ” 

He said this, but his anxiety, the disappoint- 
ment caused by his defeat, the sarcastic remarks 
of his acquaintances, and his perplexity in re- 
gard to the course he had best pursue, so affected 
his health that he became really ill — so ill that 
he was confined to his bed. 

Eight days had elapsed since he had left his 
house, when one morning Lecoq called to inquire 
for him. 

“You see, my good fellow, that this mysteri- 
ous murder is fatal to us judges. Ah! he is too 
much for us; he will preserve his identity.” 

“Possibly,” replied Lecoq. “There is but one 
way left to gain his secret : we must allow him 
to escape — and then track him to his lair.” 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 

This last expedient, proposed by Lecoq, was 
not of his own invention, and not by any means 
new. 

In every age the police force has, when it be- 
came necessary to do so, closed its eyes and 
opened the prison doors for the release of sus- 
pected parties. 

And not a few, dazzled by liberty and igno- 
rant of any ^ionage, betray themselves. 

All prisoners are not, like Lav alette, protected 
by royal connivance; and we might enumerate 
many individuals who, like the unfortunate 
Georges d’Etcherony, have been released, only 
to be re- arrested, when they have made a con- 
fession of guilt to those who" had wormed them- 
selves into their confidence. 

Poor d’Etcherony! He supposed that he had 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


261 


eluded the vigilance of his guardians. When he 
discovered his error, and became aware of the 
mistake he had made, he sent a bullet through 
his own heart. 

Alas! he sur'vived this terrible wound long 
enough to learn that one of his own familiar 
friends had betrayed him, and to cast in his teeth 
the insulting word, “traitor!” 

It is, however, very seldom, and only in spe- 
cial cases, and as a last resort, that such a plan 
is adopted. 

And the authorities consent to it only when 
they hope to derive some important advantage, 
such as the capture of a whole band of malefac- 
tors. 

The police arrest, perhaps, one of the band. In 
spite of his wickedness, a sense of honor makes 
him, not infrequently, refuse to name his accom- 
plices. What is to be done? Is he alone to be 
tried and condemned? 

No. He is at liberty; but like the falcon who 
flies away with a thread attached to his foot he 
drags after him at the end of his chain a crowd 
of close observers. 

And at the very moment when he is boasting 
of his good luck and audacity to the comrades 
he has rejoined, the whole company find them- 
selves caught in the snare. 

M. Segmuller knew all this, and much more; 
yet on hearing Lecoq’s proposition, he turned 
to him angrily, and exclaimed ; 

“Are you mad?” 

“I think not.” 

“A most foolish scheme!” 

“Why so, monsieur? After the assassination 
of the husband and wife Chaboiseau, the police 
succeeded in capturing the guilty parties, you 
must recollect. But a robbery of one hundred 
and fifty thousand francs in bank-notes and coin 
had also been committed. This large sum of 
money could not be found; and the murderers 


262 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


obstinately refused to divulge where they had 
concealed it. It would be a fortune for them, 
if they escaped the gallows; but, meanwhile, 
the children of the victims were ruined. M. 
Patrigent, the judge of instruction, was the 
first— I will not say to counsel — but to succeed 
in convincing the authorities that it would bo 
well to set one of these wretches at liberty. They 
followed his advice; and three days later the 
culprit was surprised disinterring his booty from 
a bed of mushrooms. I believe that our pris- 
oner — ” 

“Enough!” interrupted M. Segmuller. “1 
wish to hear no more about this affair. I have, 
it seems to me, forbidden you to broach the sub- 
ject.” 

The young detective hung his head with a hyp- 
ocritical air of submission. But he was all the 
while watching the judge out of the corner of his 
eye and noting his agitation. 

“I can afford to be silent,” he thought; “he 
will return to the subject of his own accord.” 

He did, in fact, return to it only a moment 
afterward. “Suppose this man was released 
from prison, what would you do?” 

“What would I do, monsieur! I would follow 
him like grim death; I would not let him go out 
of my sight; I would live in his shadow.” 

“And you suppose that he would not discover 
this surveillance?” 

“I should take my precautions.” 

“He would recognize you at a single glance.” 

“No, monsieur, because I shall disguise my- 
self. A detective who is not capable of equaling 
the most skillful actor in the matter of make-up 
is no better than an ordinary policeman. I have 
practiced only for a year in making my face and 
my person whatever I wish them to be ; but I 
can, at will, be old or young, dark or light, a man 
of the world, or the most frightful ruffian of the 
harrieres.^' 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


263 


“I Vas not aware that you possessed this tal- 
ent, Monsieur Lecoq.” 

“Oh! I am very far from the perfection of 
which I dream. I venture to engage, however, 
that before three days have elapsed I can ap- 
pear before you and converse with you for half 
an hour without being recognized.” 

M. Segmuller made no response; and it was 
evident to Lecoqthat the judge had offered these 
objections in the hope of seeing them destroyed, 
rather than with the wish to see them prevail. 

“I think, my poor boy, that you are strangely 
deceived. We have both been equally anxious 
to penetrate the mystery that shrouds this strange 
man. We have both admired his wonderful 
acuteness — for his sagacity is wonderful; so 
marvelous, indeed, that it exceeds the limits of 
imagination. Do you believe that a man of his 
penetration will betray himself like an ordinary 
prisoner? He will understand at once, if he is 
set at liberty, that his freedom is given him only 
that we may use it against him.” 

“I do not deceive myself, sir. May will divine 
the truth. I know that but too well.” 

“Very well; then what will be the use of at- 
tempting what you propose?” 

“I have reflected on the subject and have come 
to this conclusion : This man will And himself 
strangely embarrassed, even when he is free. He 
will not have a sou in his pocket; he has no 
trade. What will he do to make a living? But 
one must eat. He may struggle along for 
awhile; but he will not be willing to suffer long. 
Days when he is without a shelter, and without 
a morsel of bread, he will remember that he is 
rich. Will he not seek to recover his property? 
Yes, certainly. He will try to obtain money; 
he will endeavor to communicate with his 
friends. I shall wait until that day comes. 
Months will elapse, and seeing no signs of my 
surveillance, he will venture some decisive step; 


264 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


and I will step forward with a warrant for his 
arrest in my hand.” 

“And what if he should leave Paris? What 
if he should flee to some foreign country?” 

“I will follow him. One of my aunts has left 
me a small country property, that is worth about 
twelve thousand francs. I will sell it, and I will 
spend the last sou, if necessary, in pursuit of my 
revenge. This man has outwitted me as if I 
were a child, and I will have my turn.” 

“And what if he should slip through your 
fingers?” 

Lecoq laughed like a man who is sure of him- 
self. 

“Let him try,” he exclaimed; “I will answer 
for him with my life.” 

Unfortunately, Lecoq’s enthusiasm made the 
judge all the colder. 

“Your idea is a good one, sir,” he responded. 
“But you must understand that law and justice 
will take no part in such intrigues. All I can 
promise you is my tacit approval. Go, therefore, 
to the prefecture; see your superiors — ” 

With a really despairing gesture, the young 
man interrupted M. Segmuller. 

“What good would it do for me to make such 
a proposition?” he exclaimed. “They would 
not only refuse my request, but they would give 
me my dismissal, if my name is not already 
erased from the roll.” 

“You dismissed, your name erased after you 
have conducted this case so well?” 

“Alas! sir, everyone is not of that opinion. 
Tongues have been wagging busily during the 
week of your illness. My enemies have heard 
somehow of the last scene we had with May. 
Ah, yes ! that man is very clever. They all say 
now that it was 7, who, with a hope of advance- 
ment, imagined all the romantic details of this 
affair. They declare that there can be no doubts 
of the prisoner’s identity except those of my own 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


265 


inyeiition. To hear them talk at the depot one 
might suppose that I invented the scene that 
took place in the Widow Chupin’s cabin, imag- 
ined the accomplices; suborned the witnesses; 
manufactured the articles found in the dwelling; 
wrote that first note as well as the second ; duped 
Father Absinthe, and mystified the keeper.” 

“The devil!” exclaimed M. Segmuller; “in 
that case what do they say of me?” 

The wily detective’s face assumed an expres- 
sion of intense embarrassment. 

“Ah! sir,” he replied, with a great show of 
reluctance, “they pretend that you have allowed 
yourself to be deceived by me, that you have 
not properly weighed the proofs which I have 
adduced.” 

A fleeting crimson tinged M. Segmuller’s fore- 
head. 

“In a word,” said he, “they think I am your 
dupe — and a fool.” 

The recollection of certain smiles that he had 
encountered in passing through the corridors, 
and of divers allusions which had stung him to 
the quick, decided him. 

“Very well! I will aid you. Monsieur Lecoq, ” 
he exclaimed. “I would like you to triumph 
over your enemies. I will get up at once and 
accompany you to the palace. I will see the at- 
torney-general myself; I will speak to him; I 
will plead your cause for you.” 

Lecoq’s joy was intense. 

Never, no never, had he dared hope to obtain 
such aid. 

Ah ! after this M. Segmuller might ask him to 
go through fire for him if he chose, and he would 
be ready to precipitate himself into the flames. 

Still he was prudent enough, and he had suf- 
ficient control over his feelings, to preserve a 
sober face. This was one of the victories that 
must be concealed, under penalty of losing all 
the benefits to be derived from it. 


266 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Certainly the young detective had said noth- 
ing that was untrue; but there are different ways 
of presenting the truth, and he had, perhaps, ex- 
aggerated a trifle in order to make the judge share 
his rancor, and make him an earnest auxiliary. 

M. Segmuller, however, after the exclamation 
wrested from him by his adroitly wounded vanity 
— after the first explosion of anger — regained his 
accustomed calmness. 

“I suppose,’’ he remarked toLecoq, “that you 
have decided what stratagem must be employed 
to lull the prisoner’s suspicions in case he is per- 
mitted to escape?” 

“1 have not once thought of that, I must con- 
fess. Besides, what go(5d would any such strat- 
agem do? That man knows too well that he is 
the object of suspicion and anxious surveillance 
not to hold himself on the qui vive. But there 
is one precaution which I believe is absolutely 
necessary; indispensable, indeed. In fact, it ap- 
pears to me an essential condition of success.” 
Lecoq seemed to find so much difficulty in choos- 
ing his words that the judge felt it necessary to 
aid him. 

“Let me hear this precaution,” said he. 

“It consists, sir, in giving an order to transfer 
May to another prison. Oh ! it matters not which 
one, any one you choose to select.” 

“Why, if you please?” 

“Because during the few days that precede his 
release, it is absolutely necessary that he should 
hold no communication with his friends outside, 
and that he should be unable to warn his accom- 
plice.” 

This proposition seemed to amaze M. Segmul- 
ler exceedingly. 

“Then you think that he is poorly guarded 
where he is?” he inquired. 

“No, monsieur, I did not say that. I am per- 
suaded that since the affair of the note the keeper 
has redoubled his vigilance. But still, where he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


267 


is now, this mysterious murderer certainly re- 
ceives news from outsid.e; we have had material 
evidence — unanswerable proofs of that fact — and 
besides — ” 

He paused, evidently fearing to give expres- 
sion to his thought, like a person who feels that 
what he is about to say will be regarded as an 
enormity. 

“And besides?’’ insisted the judge. 

“Ah, well, sir! I will be perfectly frank with 
you. I find that Gevrol enjoys too much liberty 
in the depot; he is perfectly at home there; he 
comes and goes, and no one ever thinks of asking 
what he is doing, where he is going, or what he 
wishes there. No pass is necessary for his ad- 
mission, and he can make the head-keeper, who 
is a very honest man, see stars in the heav- 
ens at mid-day if he chooses. And I distrust 
Gevrol.” 

“Oh! Monsieur Lecoq!” 

“Yes, I know very well that it is a bold accu- 
sation ; but a man is not master of his presenti- 
ments, and I distrust Gevrol. Hid the prisoner 
know, or did he not know, that I was watching 
him from the loft, and that I had discovered hisa 
secret correspondence? Evidently he did know 
this; the last scene vith him proves it.” 

“Such is also my opinion.” 

“But how could he have known it? He could 
not have discovered it unaided. For eight days 
I endured tortures to find the solution of this 
problem. All my trouble was wasted. Gevrol’s 
intervention would explain it all.” 

M. Segmuller, at the mere supposition, turned 
pale with anger. 

“Ah! if I could really believe that! he ex- 
claimed; “if I were sure of it! Have you any 
proofs?” 

The young man shook his head. 

“If I had my hands full of proofs I should 
know enough not to open them. Would it not 


2(58 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ruin my whole future? I must, if I succeed, ex- 
pect many such acts of treachery. There is ha- 
tred and rivalry in every profession ! And mark 
this, monsieur — I do not doubt GevroTs honesty. 
If a hundred thousand francs were counted out 
upon the table and offered to him, he would not 
release a prisoner. But he would rob justice of 
a dozen criminals in the mere hope of injuring 
me, whom he thinks likely to overshadow him.’’ 

How many things these words explained! To 
how many unsolved enigmas did they give the 
key! But the judge had not time to follow out 
this course of thought. 

“That will do,” said he; “go into the draw- 
ing-room for a moment. I will dress and join 
you there. I will send for a carriage; I must 
make haste if I wish to see the procureur-general 
to-day.” 

Usually very particular about the minutiae of 
his toilet, this morning the judge was dressed 
and in the drawing-room in less than a quarter 
of an hour. 

As soon as he entered the apartment where 
Lecoq was impatiently awaiting him, he said, 
briefly : ‘ ‘ Let us start. ’ ’ 

They were just entering the carriage, when a 
man, whose handsome livery proclaimed him a 
servitor in an aristocratic household, hastily ap- 
proached M. Segmuller. 

“Ah! Jean, is it you?” said the judge. “How 
is your master?” 

“Improving, monsieur. He sent me to ask 
how you were, and to inquire how that affair 
was progressing?” 

“There has been no change in that since I 
wrote him last. Give him my compliments, and 
tell that I am out again.” 

The servant bowed. Lecoq took a seat beside 
the judge, and t\iQ fiacre started. 

“That fellow is d’Escorval’s valet de cham- 
bre, remarked M. Segmuller. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


269 


“The judge who — ” 

“Precisely. He sent his man to me two or 
three days ago, to ascertain what we were doing 
with our mysterious May.” 

“Then M. d’Escorval is interested in the case?” 

“Prodigiously! I conclude it is because he 
opened the prosecution, and because the case 
rightfully belongs to him. Perhaps he regrets 
that it passed out of his hands, and thinks that 
he could have managed the instruction better 
himself. We would have done better with it if 
we could. I would give a good deal to see him 
in my place.” 

But this change would not have been at all to 
Lecoq’s taste. 

“That stern and forbidding judge would never 
have granted the concessions I have just obtained 
from M. Segmuller,” he thought. 

He had, indeed, good reason to congratulate 
himself; for M. Segmuller did not break his 
promise. He was one of those men who, when 
they have once decided upon a plan, never rest 
until it has been carried into execution. 

That very day he induced the authorities to 
adopt Lecoq’s suggestion; and the details only 
remained to be decided upon. 

That same afternoon, the Widow Chupin re- 
ceived her conditional release. 

There was no difficulty in regard to Polyte. 
He, in the meantime, had been brought before 
the court under a charge of theft; and, to his 
great astonishment, had heard himself con- 
demned to thirteen months’ imprisonment. 

After this, M. Segmuller had nothing to do 
but to wait, and this was much more easy to do, 
since the coming of the Easter holidays gave 
him an opportunity to seek a little rest and re- 
creation in the provinces, with his family. 

He returned to Paris on the last day of the 
recess, which chanced to fail on Sunday, and he 
was sitting quietly in his own drawing-room. 


270 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


when a servant — who had been sent by the em- 
ployment bureau to take the place of one whom 
he had dismissed — was announced. 

The newcomer was a man apparently about 
forty years of age, very red in the face, with 
thick hair and heavy red whiskers — strongly in- 
clined to corpulence, and cla*d in clumsy, ill-fit- 
ting garments. 

In a very sedate manner, and with a strong 
Norman accent, he informed the judge that dur- 
ing the past twenty years he had been in the em- 
ploy of literary men — a physician, and a notary; 
that he was familiar with the duties that would 
be required of him in the Palais de Justice, and 
that he knew how to dust papers without disar- 
ranging them. 

In short, the man produced such a favorable 
impression that, although he reserved twenty- 
four hours in which to make further inquiries, 
the judge drew from his pocket a louis, and 
tendered it to him as the first installment of his 
wages. 

But the man, with a sudden change of voice 
and attitude, burst into a hearty laugh, and said : 

“Monsieur, do you think that May will recog- 
nize me?” 

“Monsieur Lecoq!” exclaimed the astonished 
judge. 

“The same, sir; and I have come to tell you 
that if you are ready to release May, all my ar- 
rangements have been completed.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

When a judge connected with the tribunal of 
the Seine wishes to examine a person incarcer- 
ated in one of the prisons, the following forms 
are observed: 

He first sends a messenger with what is called 
an order of extraction, an imperative and concise 
formula, which we quote, in order to give some 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


271 


idea of the unlimited power vested in the magis- 
trates who are intrusted with the preparation of 
the cases for the government. 

It reads thus : 

“The keeper of the prison will give into 

the custody of the bearer of this order, the pris- 
oner known as — — , in order that he may be 
brought before us in our cabinet in the Palais de 
Justice.” 

ISTo more, no less, a signature, a seal, and 
everybody hastens to obey. 

But from the moment of receiving this order 
to the time that the prisoner is again consigned 
to the keeping of the jailer, the superintendent 
of the prison is relieved of all responsibility. 
Whatever may happen, his hands are clean. 

So the journey of the prisoner from the prison 
to the palace is usually attended with an infinite 
number of precautions. 

They place the prisoner in one of the lugubrious 
vehicles that one sees stationed every day on the 
Quai dePHorloge, or the court of the Sainte- 
Chapellej locking him up carefully in one of the 
compartments. 

This vehicle conveys him to the palace, and 
while he is awaiting his examination, he is im- 
mured in one of the cells of that gloomy prison, 
familiarly known as “laSouriciere” — the mouse- 
trap. 

On entering and leaving the carriage the pris- 
oner is surrounded by guards. 

En route he is also under the watchful eyes 
of several guards, some of them stationed in the 
passage-way that divides the compartments, 
others on the seat with the driver. Mounted 
guards always accompany the vehicle. 

So the boldest malefactors realize the impossi- 
bility of escape from this moving prison-house. 

The statistics show only thirty attempts at es- 
cape in a period of ten years. 


272 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Of these thirty attempts, twenty-five were ri- 
diculous failures. Four were discovered before 
their authors had conceived any serious hope of 
success. One man alone succeeded in making 
his escape from the vehicle, and he had not gone 
fifty steps before he was captured. 

Lecoq’s plan for allowing May to escape was 
childish in its simplicity, as he himself confessed. 
It consisted in fastening the compartment in 
which May was placed very insecurely, on the 
departure of the carriage from the depot, and i n 
forgetting him entirely when the wagon, after 
depositing its load of criminals at the “mouse- 
trap,” went, as usual, to await upon the quay 
the hour for returning them to the prison. 

It was scarcely possible that the prisoner would 
fail to embrace this opportunity to make his es- 
cape. 

All was, therefore, prepared and arranged, in 
conformance with Lecoq’s directions, on the day 
indicated — the Monday following the close of the 
Easter holidays. 

The order of “extraction” was intrusted to an 
intelligent man, with the most minute instruc- 
tions. 

The prison- van containing the prisoner. May, 
would not arrive at the palace until noon. 

And yet at nine o’clock there might have been 
seen hanging about the prefecture one of those 
old gamins^ who make one almost believe in the 
fable of Venus rising from the waves, so truly 
do they seem born of the foam and scum of the 
city. 

He was clad in a tattered black woolen blouse, 
and in large ill-fitting trousers, fastened about 
his waist by a leathern band. His boots be- 
trayed a familiar acquaintance with the mud- 
puddles of the suburbs, his cap was shabby and 
dirty ; but his pretentiously-tied red silk cravat 
must have been a gift from his sweetheart. 

He had the unhealthy complexion, the hollow 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


273 


eyes, the slouching mien, the straggling beard 
common to his tribe. 

His yellow hair was plastered down upon his 
temples, but cut closely at the back of the head, 
as if to save the trouble of brushing it. 

On seeing his attire, the way in which he bal- 
anced himself upon his haunches, the movement 
of his shoulders, his way of holding his cigarette 
and ejecting a stream of saliva from between his 
teeth, Polyte Chupin would have extended his 
hand as to a friend, and greeted him as “com- 
rade” and “pal.” 

It was the 14th of April; the day was lovely, 
the air balmy, the tops of the chestnut trees in 
the garden of the Tuileries looked green against 
the horizon, and this man seemed well content to 
be alive, and happy in doing nothing. 

He walked lazily to and fro on the quay, di- 
viding his attention between the passers-by and 
the men who were hauling sand from the banks 
of the Seine. 

Occasionally he crossed the street and ex- 
changed a few words with a respectable elderly 
gentleman, very neatly dressed, and wearing 
spectacles and a very long beard, his hands in- 
cased in silk gloves. This person exhibited all 
the characteristics of a respectable, well-to-do 
gentleman, and seemed to feel a remarkable curi- 
osity in regard to the contents of an optician’s 
window. 

From time to time a policeamn or one of the 
detective corps passed them on his way to make 
his report; and the elderly gentleman or the 
gamin often ran after him to ask some infor- 
mation. 

The person addressed replied and passed on ; 
and then the two confreres joined each other to 
laugh and say: “Good! — there is another who 
does not recognize us.” 

And they had just cause for exultation; and 
good reason to be proud. 


274 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Of the twelve or fifteen comrades whom they 
had accosted, not one had recognized their col- 
leagues, Lecoq and Father Absinthe. 

For it was indeed they, armed and equipped 
for the chase, for the pursuit whose chances and 
result it was impossible to foresee. 

“Ah! I am not surprised that they do not rec- 
ognize me,” said Father Absinthe, “since I can- 
not recognize myself. No one but you. Monsieur 
Lecoq, could have so transformed me. ’ ’ 

But the time for reflection was p^st; the time 
for action had come. 

The young detective saw the prison-van cross- 
ing the bridge at a brisk trot. 

“Attention!” he said to his companion, 
“there comes our friend! Quick — to your post; 
remember my directions, and keep your eyes 
open.” 

Near them, on the quay, was a huge pile of 
timber. Father Absinthe went and hid himself 
behind it; and Lecoq, seizing a spade that was 
lying idle, hurried to a little distance and began 
digging in the sand. 

They did well to make haste. The van came ' 
onward and turned the corner. 

It passed the two men, and with a noisy clang 
rolled under the heavy arch that led to “la Sou- 
riciere.” May was inside. 

Lecoq was sure of this when he saw the keeper, 
who was seated in the vehicle. 

The carriage remained in the court-yard for 
more than a quarter of an hour. 

When it reappeared in the street, the driver 
had descended from his seat and was leading the 
horses by the bridle. He stationed the carriage 
opposite the Palais de Justice, threw a covering 
over his horses, lighted his pipe, and walked 
away. 

For a moment the anxiety of the two watchers 
amounted to actual agony; nothing stirred — 
nothing moved. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


275 


But at last the door of the carriage was opened 
with infinite caution, and a pale, frightened face 
became visible. It was the face of May. 

The prisoner cast a rapid glance around ; no 
one was in sight. 

With the quickness of a cat he sprang to the 
ground, noiselessly closed the door of the vehicle, 
and walked quietly in the direction of the bridge. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Lecoq breathed again. 

He had been asking himself if some trifling 
circumstance could have been forgotten or neg- 
lected, and thus disarranged all his plans. 

He had been wondering if this strange man 
would refuse the dangerous liberty which had 
been offered him. Foolish disquietude! May 
had fled; not thoughtlessly, but premeditatedly. 

From the moment when he was left alone and 
apparently forgotten in the insecurely locked 
compartment, to the instant when he opened the 
door, sufficient time had elapsed to give a man 
of his intellect and clearness of discernment am- 
ple opportunity to analyze and calculate all the 
chances of so grave a step. 

Hence, if he stepped into the snare that had 
been laid for him, it would be with a full knowl- 
edge of the risks he must be prepared to run. 

He accepted, boldly, perhaps, but not blindly, 
the struggle that must ensue. 

“But,” thought Lecoq, “if he decides to incur 
these risks he must be reasonably sure that he 
will succeed in overcoming them.” 

Such a belief on the part of May was a grave 
subject of fear for the young detective; but it 
also gave rise to a delightful emotion. He had 
an ambition beyond his station; and every am- 
bitious man is by nature a gambler. 

He felt that his foeman was worthy of his 
steel ; but they had equal chances for success. 


276 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


They were alone together, free in the streets 
of Paris, armed with mutual distrust, obliged 
alike to resort to strategy, forced to hide from 
each other. 

Lecoq, it is true, had an auxiliary — Father 
Absinthe. But who could say that May would 
not be aided by his redoubtable accomplice? 

It was then a veritable duel whose result de- 
pended entirely upon the courage, skill and cool- 
ness of the antagonists. 

All these thoughts flashed through the young 
man’s brain with the quickness of lightning. 

He threw down his spade, and, running to a 
policeman, who was just coming out of the pal- 
ace, he gave him a letter which he held ready in 
his pocket. “Take this to M. Segmuller at once; 
it is a matter of importance,” said he. 

The officer attempted to question this gamin 
who was in correspondence with the magistrates ; 
but Lecoq had already darted off in the footsteps 
of the prisoner. 

May had gone only a little distance. He was 
sauntering along, with his hands in his pockets, 
his head high in the air, his manner composed 
and full of assurance. 

Had he reflected that it would be dangerous to 
run while near the prison from which he tad 
just made his escape? Or had he decided that, 
since they had given him this opportunity to 
escape, there was no danger that they would re- 
arrest him immediately? 

Nor did he quicken his pace when he had 
, crossed the bridge; and it was with the same 
tranquil manner that he crossed the Quai aux 
Fleurs and turned into the Rue de la Cite. 

Nothing in his bearing or appearance pro- 
claimed him an escaped prisoner. Since his 
trunk — that famous trunk which he pretended to 
have left at the Hotel de Mariembourg — had 
been returned to him, he had been well supplied 
with clothing; and he never failed, when sum- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 277 

moned before the judge, to array himself in his 
best apparel. 

He wore that day a coat, vest, and pantaloons 
of black cloth. One, to see him, would have sup- 
posed him a working man of the better class, off 
on a holiday excursion. 

But when, after crossing the Seine, he reached 
the Rue St. Jacques, his manner changed. His 
tread, perfectly assured until then, became un- 
certain. He walked slowly, looking to the right 
and to the left, studying the signs. 

“Evidently he is seeking something,” thought 
Lecoq; “but what?” 

It was not long before he discovered. 

Seeing a shop where second-hand clothing was 
sold. May entered in evident haste. 

Lecoq stationed himself in Siporte cochere on 
the opposite side of the street, and pretended to 
be busily engaged in lighting a cigarette! Fa- 
ther Absinthe thought he could approach'^with- 
out danger. 

“Ah, well! monsieur; here is our man chang- 
ing his fine clothing for coarser garments. He 
will demand money in return; and they will 
give it to him. You told me this morning: ‘May 
without a sou ’ — that is the trump card in our 
game!” 

“Nonsense! Before we begin to lament, let 
us wait and see what will happen. It is not 
likely that the shop-keeper will give him the 
money. He will not buy clothing of every passer- 
by.” 

Father Absinthe withdrew to a little distance. 
He distrusted these reasons, but not Lecoq, who " 
gave them to him. 

In his secret soul Lecoq was cursing himself. 

Another blunder; another weapon left in the 
hands of the enemy. How was it that he, who 
thought himself so shrewd, had not foreseen this? 

His remorse was less poignant when he saw 
May emerge from the store as he had entered it. 


278 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Luck, of which he had spoken to Father Ab- 
sinthe, without believing in it, had for once been 
in his favor. 

The prisoner actually staggered when he 
stepped out upon the pavement. His counte- 
nance betrayed the terrible anguish of a drown- 
ing man when he sees the frail plank which was 
his only hope of salvation torn from his grasp. 

But what had taken place? Lecoq wished to 
know. 

He gave a peculiar whistle, which was the 
signal agreed upon to warn his companion that 
he abandoned the pursuit to him; and having 
received a similar signal in response, he entered 
the shop. 

The merchant was still standing at his counter. 
Lecoq wasted no time in parleying. He merely 
showed his card to acquaint the man with his 
profession, and curtly demanded the desired in- 
forn:}(ation. 

“What did the man want who just left here?” 

The merchant seemed troubled. 

“It is a long story,” he stammered. 

“Tell it!” ordered Lecoq, surprised at the 
man’s embarrassment. 

“Oh, it is very simple. About twelve days 
ago a man entered my store with a bundle under 
his arm. He claimed that he was a countryman 
of mine.” 

“Are you an Alsacian?” 

“Yes, sir. Well, I went with this man to the 
wine shop on the corner, where he ordered a bot- 
tle of the best wine; and when we had drank to- 
gether, he asked me if I would consent to keep 
the package he had with him until one of his 
cousins came to claim it. To prevent any mis- 
take, this cousin was to utter certain words — a 
countersign, as it were. I refused, shortly and 
decidedly, for the very month before I had got- 
ten into trouble, and had been accused of receiv- 
ing stolen goods, by obliging a person in this 


MONSIBtTR LECOQ. 


279 


samp) way. Well, you never saw a man so vexed 
and so surprised. Wliat made me all the more 
determined in my refusal was that he offered me 
a good round sum in payment for my trouble. 
This only increased my suspicions, and I per- 
sisted in my refusal.” 

He paused to take breath; but Lecoq was on 
fire with impatience. 

“And what then?” he insisted. 

“Afterward the man paid for the wine and 
went away. I had forgotten all about the oc- 
currence, until this man came in just now, and 
asked me if I had not a package for him, which 
had been left here by one of his cousins, where- 
upon he uttered some peculiar words — the coun- 
tersign, doubtless. When I replied that I had 
nothing, he turned as white as his shirt; and I 
thought that he was going to faint. All my sus- 
picions returned. So when he proposed that I 
should buy his clothing — no; I thank you.i^ 

All this was very plain. 

“And how did this cousin look who was here 
a fortnight ago?” inquired the detective. 

“He was a large, and rather corpulent man, 
with a ruddy complexion, and white whiskers. 
Ah! I should recognize him in an instant!” 

“The accomplice!” exclaimed Lecoq. * 

“What did you say?” 

“Nothing that would interest you. Thank 
you. I am in a hurry. You will see me again; 
good-morning.” 

Lecoq had not remained in the store five min- 
utes, yet, when he emerged. May and Father 
Absinthe were nowhere to be seen. 

But this did not occasion any uneasiness in 
Lecoq’s mind. 

When making arrangements with his old col- 
league for this pursuit the detective had endeav^- 
ored to imagine all possible difficulties in order 
to solve them in advance. 

The present situation had been foreseen. And 


280 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


it had been agreed that if one of the observers 
was obliged to remain behind, the other, who 
was closely following May, should make chalk- 
marks from time to time upon the walls, and. 
upon the shutters of the shops, which would in- 
dicate the route to be followed, and enable his 
companion to rejoin him. 

So, in order to know which way to go, Lecoq 
had only to examine the fronts of the buildings 
around him. 

This task was neither long nor difficult. 

Upon the shutters of the third shop above that 
of the second-hand clothes dealer, a superb dash 
of the crayon told Lecoq to turn into the Rue 
Saint- Jacques. H 

The detective rushed on in that direction, 
greatly disquieted- 

His assurance qf. the morning had received a 
rude shock ! 

What a terrible warning that old clothes 
dealer’s declaration had been ! 

And so it was an established fact that the mys- 
terious and redoubtable accomplice had proved 
his marvelous foresight by making every possi- 
ble arrangement to insure his companion’s sal- 
vation, in case he was allowed to escape. 

The subtle penetration of this man surpassed 
the pretended miracles of clairvoyants. 

“ What did this package contain?” thought 
Lecoq. “Clothing, undoubtedly; all the equip- 
ments of a complete disguise, money, clothing, 
papers, a forged passport.” 

He had reached the Rue Soufflot, and paused 
for an instant to ask his way from the walls. 

It was the work of a second. A long chalk- 
mark on the shop of a watchmaker pointed to 
the Boulevard Saint- Michel. 

The young man hastened in that direction. 

“The accomplice,” he continued, “did not 
succeed in his attempt in the case of the old 
clothes dealer; but he is not the man to be dis- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


281 


heartened by one rebuff. He has certainly taken 
other measures. How shall I divine them, in 
order to circumvent them?” 

The prisoner had crossed the Boulevard Saint- 
Michel, and had then taken the Hue Monsieur- 
le-Prince. Father Absinthe’s dashes of the crayon 
declared this fact with many eloquent flourishes. 

“One circumstance reassures me,” the detec- 
tive murmured; “May’s going to this shop, and 
his consternation on finding that there was noth- 
ing for him there. The accomplice had informed 
him of his plans, but had not been able to in- 
form him of the failure. Hence, from this hour, 
Tv^soner is left upon his own resources. The 
cn.;^ that bound him to his accomplice is bro- 
kenp there is no longer an understanding be- 
tween them. Everything depends now upon 
keeping them apart. Th"^, iskewery thing!” 

How much he rejoiced ti... ne had succeeded 
in having May removed to another prison.* His 
triumph, in case he did succeed, would be the 
result of this act of distrust. He was con- 
vinced that this attempt, on the part of the ac- 
complice, had taken place the very evening be- 
fore May was removed to another prison; and 
this explained why it had been impossible to 
warn him of the failure of one plan and to sub- 
stitute another. 

Still following the chalk-marks, Lecoq had 
reached the Odeon: Here— more signs ; but he 
perceived Father Absinthe under the gallery. 
The old man was standing before .the window of 
a book-store, apparently engrossed in the exami- 
nation of the pictures in an illustrated journal. 

Lecoq, assuming the nonchalant manner of 
the loafer whose garb he wore, took a place beside 
his colleague. 

“Where is he?” the young man asked. 

“There,” replied his companion, with a slight 
movement of his head toward the staircase. 

The fugitive was, indeed, seated upon one of 


282 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the steps of the stone stairs, his elbows resting 
upon his knees, his face hidden in his hands, as 
if he felt the necessity of concealing the expres- 
sion of his face from the passers-by. 

Undoubtedly at that moment he gave himself 
up for lost. Alone, in the midst of Paris, with- 
out a penny, what was to become of him? 

He knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that 
he was watched; that his ever}^ step was fol- 
lowed; and he knew only too well that the first 
attempt he made to inform his accomplice of his 
whereabouts would cost him his secret — the se- 
cret which he held as more precious than life 
itself, and which, by immense sacrifices, he had 
thus far been able to preserve. 

After contemplating in silence for some time 
this unfortunate man whom he could but esteem 
and admire, after all, Lecoq turned to his old 
companion. 

“What did he do on the way?’’ he inquired. 

“He went into the shops of five dealers in sec- 
ond-hand clothing without success. Then he 
addressed a man who was passing with a lot of 
old rubbish on his shoulder; but the man would 
not even answer him.” 

Lecoq nodded his head thoughtfully. 

“The moral of this is, that there is a vast dif 
ference between theory and practice,” he re- 
marked. “Here is a man who has made the 
most discerning believe that, he is a poor devil, 
a low buffoon ; so much as he prated of the mis- 
fortunes and the hazards of his existence— He 
is free; and this so-called Bohemian does not 
know how to go to work to sell the clothing that 
he wears upon his back. The comedian who 
could play his part so well upon the stage, disap- 
pears; the man remains — the man who has al- 
ways been rich, and who knows nothing of the 
vicissitudes of life.” 

He ceased his moralizing, for May had risen 
from his seat. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 283 

Lecoq was only ten paces from him, and could 
see him very plainly. 

The wretched man’s face was livid; his atti- 
tude expressed the most profound dejection; one 
could read his indecision in his eyes. 

Perhaps he was wondering if it would not be 
best for him to go and place himself again in 
the hands of his jailers, since the resources upon 
which he had depended had failed him. 

But, after a little, he shook off the torpor that 
had overpowered him; his eye brightened, and, 
with a gesture of defiance, he descended the stair- 
case, crossed the open square, and entered the 
Rue de I’Ancienne-Comedie. 

He walked on now with a brisk, determined 
step, like a man who has an aim in view. 

“Who knows where he is ^oing now?” mur- 
mured Father Absinthe, as he trotted along by 
Lecoq’s side. 

“I know,” replied the detective. “And the 
proof is, that I am going to leave you, and run 
on in advance, to prepare for his reception. I 
may be mistaken, however, and as it is necessary 
to be prepared for any emergency, leave me .the 
chalk-marks as you go along. If our man does 
not come to the Hotel de Mariembourg, as I 
think he will, I shall come back here to start in 
pursuit of you again.” 

An empty fiacre chanced to be passing; Le- 
coq entered it and told the coachman to drive to 
the Northern Railway depot by the shortest 
route, and as quickly as possible. 

He had little time to spare, so while he was on 
the way he profited by the opportunity to pay the 
driver and to search in his note-book, among the 
documents confided to him by M. Segmnller, for 
the particular paper that he wanted. 

The carriage had scarcely stopped before Le- 
coq was on the ground and running toward the 
hotel. 

As on the occasion of his first visit, he found 


284 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Madame Milner standing upon a chair before the 
cage of her starling, obstinately repeating her 
German phrase, to which the bird with equal 
obstinacy responded: “Camille! where is Ca- 
mille?” 

In seeing the rather questionable-looking indi- 
vidual who invaded her hotel, the pretty widow 
did not deign to change her position. 

“What do you want?” she demanded, in a 
rather discouraging tone. 

“I am the nephew of a messenger in the Pa- 
lais de Justice,” Lecoq responded, with an awk- 
ward bow, entirely in keeping with his attire. 
“On going to see my uncle this morning, I found 
him laid, up with the rheumatism ; and he asked 
me to bring you this paper in his stead. It is a 
citation for you to appear at once before the 
judge of instruction.” 

This reply induced Mme. Milner to abandon 
her perch. She took the paper and read it. It 
was, indeed, as this singular messenger had said. 

“Very well,” she responded; “give me time 
to throw a shawl over my shoulder and I will 
obey.” 

Lecoq withdrew with another awkward bow; 
but he had not crossed the threshold before a 
significant grimace betrayed his inward satisfac- 
tion. She had duped him once, now he had re- 
paid her. 

He crossed the street, and seeing on the corner 
of the Rue Saint- Quentin a house in process of 
construction, he concealed himself there, wait- 
ing. 

“Time to slip on my bonnet and shawl, and I 
will start!” 

Madame Milner had replied chus. But she 
was forty years of age, a widow, a blonde, very 
pretty, and very agreeable still, at least in the 
opinion of the commissioner of police in that 
quarter, so she required more than ten minutes 
to tie the strings of her blue velvet bonnet. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


285 


At the thought that May might arrive at any 
moment, Lecoq felt a cold perspiration issue 
from the pores of his entire body. 

How much was he in advance of the fugitive? 
A half hour, perhaps ! And he had accomplished 
only half his task. 

The shadow of each passer-by made him shud- 
der. 

At last the coquettish mistress of the hotel 
made her appearance as radiant as a spring 
morning. 

She probably wished to make up for the time 
spent in making her toilet, for as she turned the 
corner she began to run. 

As soon as she was out of sight, the young de- 
tective bounded from his place of concealment, 
and burst into the Hotel de Mariembourg like a 
bombshell. 

Fritz, the Bavarian lad, must have been 
warned that the house was to be left in his sole 
charge for some hour^ and — he was guarding it. 

He was comfortably established in his mis- 
tress’s own particular arm-chair, his legs resting 
upon another chair, and he was already sound 
asleep. 

‘ ‘ W ake up ! ” shouted Lecoq ; ‘ ‘ wake up ! ” 

At the sound of this voice, which ’rang like a 
trumpet blast, Fritz sprang to his feet fright- 
ened half out of his wits. 

“You see that I am an agent of the prefecture 
of police,” said the visitor, showing his badge, 
“and if you wish to avoid all sorts of disagree- 
able things, the least of which will be a sojourn 
in prison, you must obey me.” 

The boy trembled in every limb. 

“I will obey,” he stammered. “But what am 
I to do?” . 

“A very little thing. A man is coming here 
in a moment; you will know him by his black 
clothes, and by his long beard. You must reply 
to him word for word, as I tell you. And re- 


286 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


member, if you make any mistake, even an in- 
voluntary one, you will suffer for it.” 

“You may rely upon me, sir,” replied Fritz. 
“I have an excellent memory.” 

The prospect of a prison had terrified him into 
abject submission. He spoke the truth; one 
might have asked anything of him. 

Lecoq profited by this disposition; and with 
clearness and conciseness he told the lad what he 
was to do. 

When he had finished his explanation, he 
added: “Now I wish to see and hear. Where 
can I hide myself?” 

Fritz pointed to a glass door. 

“In the dark room there, sir. By leaving the 
door ajar you can hear, and you can see every- 
thing through the glass.” 

Without a word, Lecoq darted into the room 
designated, for the spring bell on the outer door 
announced the arrival of some visitor. 

It was May. 

“I desire to speak to the mistress of this ho- 
tel,” he said. 

“ Which mistress?” 

“The woman who received me when I came 
here six weeks ago — ” 

“I understand,” interrupted Fritz; “it is 
Mme. Milner whom you wish to see. You come 
too late; she no longer owns this house. She 
sold it about a month ago, and has returned to 
her former home, Alsace. ’ ’ 

The man stamped his foot with a terrible oath. 

“I have a claim to make upon her,” he in- 
sisted. 

“Do you wish me to call her successor?” 

In his place of concealment Lecoq could not 
help admiring Fritz, who was uttering these 
glaring falsehoods with that air of perfect can- 
dor which gives the Germans such an advantage 
over people of the south, who seem to be lying 
even when they are telling the truth. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


287 


“The successor will send me walking!” ex- 
claimed May. ‘ ‘ I came to reclaim the money I 
paid for a room which I have never used.” 

“Such money is never refunded.” 

The man muttered some incoherent threat, 
in which such words as “evident stealing” and 
“justice” could be distinguished; then he went 
out, slamming the door violently behind him. 

“Well! did I answer properly?” Fritz tri- 
umphantly demanded, as Lecoq emerged from 
his hiding-place. 

“Yes, perfectly,” replied the detective. 

And pushing aside the boy, who was standing 
in his way, he dashed after May. 

A vague fear almost suffocated him. 

It had struck him that the fugitive had not 
been either surprised or deeply affected by the 
news he had heard. He had come to the hotel 
depending upon Madame Milner’s aid; the news 
of the departure of this womao, who was the 
confidential friend of his accomplice, might reas- 
onably be expected to terrify him. 

Had he divined the ruse that had been played 
upon him? And how? 

His good sense told him so plainly that the 
fugitive must have been put on his guard, that 
Lecoq’s first question, on rejoining Father Ab- 
sinthe, was: “May spoke to some one on his 
way to the hotel?” 

“Why, how could you know that?” exclaimed 
the worthy man, greatly astonished. 

“Ah! I was sure of it! To whom did he 
speak?” 

“To a very pretty woman, upon my word! — 
fair and plump as a partridge.” 

Lecoq turned green with anger. 

“Fate is against us!” he exclaimed, with an 
oath. “I run on in advance to Madame Milner’s 
house, so that May shall not see her. I invent 
an excuse for sending her out of the hotel, and 
they encounter each other!” 


288 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Father Absinthe gave a despairing gesture. 

“Ah! if I had known!” he murmured; “but 
you did not tell me to prevent May from speak- 
ing to the passers-bj^. 

“Never mind, my old friend,” said Lecoq, 
consolingly; “it could not have been helped.” 

The fugitive had reached the Faubourg Mont- 
martre, and his pursuers were obliged to hasten 
forward and get closer to their man, that they 
might not lose him in the crowd. 

When they had almost overtaken him: 

“Now,” resumed Lecoq, “give me the details. 
Where did they meet?” 

“On the Rue Saint-Quentin.” 

“Which saw the other first?” 

“May.” 

“What did the woman say? Did j^ou hear 
any cry of surprise?” 

“I heard nothing, because I was quite fifty 
paces from them; but, by the woman’s manner, 
I could see that she was stupefied.” 

Ah ! If Lecoq could have witnessed the scene, 
what valuable deductions he would have drawn 
from it ! 

“Did they talk for a long time?” 

“For less than a quarter of an hour.” 

“Do you know whether Mme. Milner gave 
May money, or not?” 

“I cannot say. They gesticulated like mad— 
so violently, indeed, that I thought they were 
quarreling.” 

“They knew they were watched, and they were 
endeavoring to divert suspicion.” 

“If they would only arrest this woman and 
question her,” suggested Father Absinthe. 

“What good would it do? Has not M. Seg- 
muller examined and cross-examined her a dozen 
times without drawing anything from her! Ah! 
she is a cunning one! She would declare that 
May met her and insisted that she should refund 
the ten francs that he paid her for his room. We 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


must do our best,” he continued, with a sort ^ 
resignation. “If the accomplice has not been 
warned already, he will soon be told, and we 
must try to keep the two men apart. What ruse 
they will employ, I cannot divine. But I know 
that it will be nothing hackneyed.” 

Lecoq’s presumption made Father Absinthe 
tremble. 

“The surest way, perhaps, would be to lock 
him up again!” 

“No!” replied the detective. “I desire his 
secret; I will have it. What will be said of us 
if we two allow this man to escape us? He will 
not, I think, be visible and invisible by turns, 
like the devil. We will see what he is going 
to do now that he has money and a plan — for 
he has both at the present moment. I would 
stake my right hand upon it.” 

At that same instant, as if the prisoner in- 
tended to convince Lecoq of the truth of his sus- 
picions, he entered a tobacco store, and emerged, 
an instant afterward, with a cigar in his mouth. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The mistress of the Plotel de Mariembourg 
had given May money; the purchase of this 
cigar proved it conclusively. 

But had they agreed upon any plan? Had 
they had time to decide, point by point, upon 
the method to be employed in evading the pur- 
suers? It would seem so, since the conduct of the 
fugitive had changed in more respects than one. 

Until now, he had appeared to care little for 
the danger of being pursued and overtaken ; but 
after his meeting with Mme. Milner he seemed 
uneasy and agitated. After walking so long in 
the full sunlight, with his head high in the air, 
he appeared to have been seized by a sort of 
panic; and he now slunk along in the shadow of 
the houses, hiding himself as much as possible. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“It is evident that the man’s fears are aug- 
mented by reason of his hopes,” said Lecoq to 
his companion. “He was totally discouraged 
intheOdeon; the merest trifle would have de- 
cided him to surrender himself; now he thinks 
he has a chance to escape with his secret.” 

The fugitive had followed the boulevard as 
far as the Place Vendome; he crossed it, and 
turned toward the Temple. 

Soon after, Father Absinthe and his compan- 
ion saw him conversing with one of those im- 
portunate merchants who consider every passer- 
by their lawful prey. 

The dealer set a price on an article, and May 
feebly demurred; but he finally yielded, and 
disappeared in the shop. ^ 

“He has determined on a change of custume. 
Is it not always the first impulse of an escaped 
prisoner?” remarked Lecoq. 

Soon May emerged from the store, metamor- 
phosed from head to foot. 

He was now clad in heavy dark-blue linen 
pantaloons, and a loosely-fitting coat of rough 
woolen material. A gay silk ’kerchief was knot- 
ted about his throat; and upon his head was a 
soft cap with a visor; this he had perched rak- 
ishly over one ear. 

Really, he was but little more prepossessing 
in his apearance than Lecoq himself. One would 
have hesitated before deciding which of the two 
men one would prefer to meet in the depths of 
a lonely forest. 

He seemed content with his transformation, 
and appeared more at ease in his new attire. 
There was evident suspicion in the glance he 
cast around him, as if he were endeavoring to 
discover which persons among the crowd were 
charged with watching him, and wresting his 
secret from him. 

He had not parted with his broadcloth suit; 
he was carrying it under his arm, wrapped in a 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


291 


handkerchief. He had bought, but had not sold ; 
he had diminished his capital and not augmented 
it. He had left only his tall silk hat. 

Lecoq wished to enter the store and make some 
inquiries; but he felt that it would be an act of 
imprudence on his part, for May had settled his 
cap upon his head with a gesture that left no 
doubt of his intentions. 

A second after, he turned into the Rue du 
Temple. Now the chase began in earnest; and 
soon the two pursuers had all they could do to 
follow their man, who seemed endowed with the 
agility of a deer. 

May had probably lived in England and in 
Germany, since he spoke the language of these 
countries like a native; but one thing was cer- 
tain — he knew Paris as thoroughly as the oldest 
Parisian. 

This was demonstrated by the way in which 
he dashed into the Rue des Gravilliers, and the 
precision of his course through the multitude of 
wiliding streets that lie between the Rue du 
Temple and the Rue Beaubourg. 

He seemed to know this quarter perfectly; as 
well, indeed, as if he had spent half his life 
there. He knew all the public-houses that had 
two outside doors — all the by-ways and tortuous 
lanes. 

Twice he almost escaped his pursuers; once 
his salvation hung upon a thread. If he had 
remained in an obscure corner, where he was 
completely hidden, only an instant longer, the 
two detectives would have passed him, and his 
safety would have been assured. 

The pursuit presented immense difficulties. 
Night was coming on, and with it that light fog 
which almost invariably follows the earliest days 
of spring. The street lamps glimmered luridly 
in the mist< without throwing their light any 
considerable distance. 

And to add to these difficulties the streets were 


292 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


now thronged with workmen who were return- 
ing home after the labors of the day, with house- 
wives purchasing provisions for supper; and 
around every house its numerous occupants were 
swarming like bees around their hive. 

May took advantage of every opportunity to 
mislead the persons who might he following him. 
Groups of people, collisions between carriages, he 
utilized them all with such marvelous presence 
of mind and such rare skill, that he often glided 
through the crowd without leaving any sign of 
his passage. 

At last he left the Rue des Gravilliers and 
entered a broader street. Reaching the Boule- 
vard de Sabastopol, he turned to the left, and 
took a fresh start. 

He darted on with marvelous rapidity, his el- 
bows pressed closely to his body, husbanding his 
breath, and timing his steps with the precision 
of a dancing-master. 

Stopping for nothing, without once turning 
his head, he hurried on. 

And it was with the same regular but rapid 
pace that he went down the Boulevard de Se- 
bastopol, that he crossed the Place du Chatelet, 
and again entered the. Boulevard Saint-Michel. 

Some fiacres were stationed near by. 

May addressed one of the drivers, and after a 
few moments’ conversation, entered his carriage. 
The fiacre started off at a rapid pace. 

But May was not in it. He had only passed 
through the carriage, and just as the driver 
was starting on an imaginary route which had 
been paid for in advance. May slipped into an- 
other vehicle, which was standing beside the 
fiacre he had hired first, and the carriage left 
the stand at a gallop. 

Perhaps, after so many ruses, after such a 
formidable effort, after this last stratagem — per- 
haps May believed that he was free. He was 
mistaken. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


293 


Behind the fiacre which bore him onward, 
leaning back upon the cushion to rest — a man 
was running. It was Lecoq. 

Poor Father Absinthe had fallen by the way. 
Before the Palais de Justice he paused, exhaust- 
ed and breathless, and Lecoq had little hope of 
seeing him again, since he had all he could do 
to keep his man in sight, without stopping to 
make the chalk-marks agreed upon. 

May had ordered his coachman to carry him 
to the Place d’ltalie; and had requested him to 
stop exactly in the middle of the square. This 
was about a hundred paces from the station-house 
in which he had been incarcerated with the 
Widow Chupin. When the carriage stopped he 
sprang to the ground, and cast a rapid glance 
around, as if looking for some dreaded shadow. 

He saw nothing. Although surprised by the 
sudden checking of the vehicle, the detective had 
yet had time to fling himself flat on his stomach 
under the body of the carriage, though not with- 
out danger of being crushed by the wheels. 

More and more reassured, apparently. May 
paid the coachman, and retraced his course to 
the Rue Mouffetard. 

With a bound, Lecoq was on his feet again, 
and started after him, as'eagerly as a ravenous 
dog follows a bonfe. He had reached the shadow 
cast by the large trees in the outer boulevards, 
when a faint whistle resounded in his ears. 

“Father Absinthe!” he exclaimed, surprised 
and delighted. 

“The same,” replied that good man, “and 
quite rested, thanks to a good fellow who was 
passing in a wagon and who picked me up and 
brought me here — ” 

“Oh, enough!” interrupted Lecoq. “Let us 
keep our eyes open.” 

May stopped before first one and then another 
of the numerous saloons in that locality. He. 
seemed to be looking for something. 


294 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


After peering through the glass doors of three 
of these establishments, he entered the fourth. 

The glass was not glazed ; and the two detec- 
tives looked through the panes with all their 
eyes. 

They saw the prisoner cross the room and seat 
himself at a table, where a man of unusual size, 
ruddy-faced and gray- whiskered, was already 
seated. 

“The accomplice!” murmured Father Ab- 
sinthe. 

Was this really the redoubtable accomplice? 

Under other circumstances Lecoq would have 
hesitated to place dependence on a vague simi- 
larity in personal appearance; but here prob- 
abilities were so strongly in favor of Father 
Absinthe’s assertion that the young detective 
admitted its truth at once. 

Was not this meeting the logical sequence, the 
manifest result of the chance meeting between 
the fugitive and the fair-haired mistress of the 
Hotel de Mariembourg? 

“May,” thought Lecoq, “began by taking all 
the money Mme. Milner had about her; he after- 
ward charged her to tell his accomplice to come 
and wait for him in some saloon near here. If 
he hesitated and looked in the different estab- 
lishments, it was only because he had not been 
able to specify exactly which one. If they do 
not throw aside the mask, it will be because May 
is not sure that he has eluded pursuit, and be- 
cause the accomplice fears that Mme. Milner has 
been followed.” 

The accomplice, if it was really the accom- 
plice, had resorted to a disguise not unlike that 
adopted by May and Lecoq. He wore a dirty 
old blue blouse, and a hideous old slouch- hat, 
really in tatters. He had rat her Exaggerated his 
rnake-up, for his sinister physi(^nomy was no- 
ticeable, even among the depraved and ferocious 
faces of the other denizens of the saloon. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


295 


For it was a regular den of cut-throats and of 
thieves that they had chosen for their rendez- 
vous. There were not four workmen there who 
were worthy of the name. All the men who 
were eating and drinking there v/ere more or 
less familiar with prison life. The least to be 
dreaded were the loafers of the harrieres^ easily 
recognized by their glazed caps and their loosely- 
knotted neckerchiefs. The majority of the com- 
pany present were made up of this class. 

And yet May, that man who was so strongly 
suspected of belonging to the highest social 
sphere, seemed to be perfectly at home. 

He called for the regular dinner and a portion 
of wine, and literally devoured it, gulping down 
his soup, and great morsels of beef, and wiping 
his mouth upon the pack of his sleeve. 

But was he conversing with his neighbor? It 
was impossible to discern this througdi the glass 
obscured by smoke and steam. 

“I must go in,” said Lecoq, resolutely. “I 
must get a place near them and listen.” 

“Do not think of doing it,” said Father Ab- 
sinthe. “What if they should recognize you!” 

“They will not recognize me.” 

“If they do, they will kill you.” 

Lecoq made a careless gesture. 

“I really think that they would not hesitate 
to rid themselves of me at any cost. But, non- 
sense! A detective who is afraid to risk his life 
is no better than a low spy. Why! you saw 
that Gevrol, even, did not flinch.” 

Perhaps the old man had wished to ascertain 
if his companion’s courage was equal to his 
shrewdness and sagacity. He was satisfled on 
this score now. 

“ You, my friend, will remain here to follow 
them if they leave hurriedly,” added Lecoq. 

He had already turned the knob of the door; 
he pushed it open, entered, and taking a seat at 
a table near that occupied by the fugitive, he 


296 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


demanded a chop and a dram, in a hoarse, gut- 
tural voice. 

The fugitive and the man in the slouch hat 
were talking, but like strangers who had met by 
chance, and not at all like friends who had met 
at a rendezvous. 

They were speaking the jargon of their pre- 
tended rank in life, not that puerile slang we 
find in romances descriptive of low life, but that 
vulgar and obscene language which it is impos- 
sible to render, so changeable and so diverse is 
the signification of its words. 

“What wonderful actors!” thought Lecoq; 
“what perfection ! what method ! How I should 
be deceived if I were not absolutely certain!” 

The man in the slouch hat held the fioor; and 
he was giving a detailed account of the different 
prisons in France. 

He told the character of the superintendents- 
of the principal prisons, how the discipline was 
much more severe at one institution than in 
some other, and how the food at Poissy was 
worth ten times as much as that at Fontevault. 

Lecoq, having finished his repast, ordered a 
small glass of brandy, and, with his back to the 
wall, and eyes closed, he pretended to sleep, and 
— listened. 

May began talking in his turn ; and he nar- 
rated his story (exactly as he had related it to 
the judge), from the murder up to his escape, 
without forgetting to mention the suspicions 
regarding his identity — suspicions which had 
afforded him great amusement, he said. 

Now, he would be perfectly happy if he had 
money enough to take him back to Germany. 
But he did not possess it, nor did he know how 
to procure it. He had not even succeeded in 
selling the clothing which belonged to him, and 
which he had with him in a bundle. 

Thereupon the man in the felt hat declared 
that he had too good a heart to leave a comre ' ' 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


297 


in such embarrassment. He knew, in the very 
same street, an obliging dealer in such articles, 
and he offered to take May there at once. 

May’s only response was to rise, saying: “Let 
us start.” And they did start, with Lecoq still 
at their heels. 

They walked rapidly on until they came to the 
Rue Fer-a-Moulin, and they turned into a nar- 
row and dimly-lighted alley, and entered a dingy 
dwelling. 

“Run and ask the concierge if there are not 
two doors by which one can leave this house,” 
said Lecoq, addressing Father Absinthe. 

The house, however, had but one entrance, and 
the two detectives waited. 

“We are discovered!” murmured Lecoq. “I 
am sure of that. The fugitive must have recog- 
nized me, or the boy at the Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg has described me to the accomplice!” 

Father Absinthe made no response, for the 
two men just then came out of the house. May 
was jingling some coins in his hand, and seemed 
to be in very ill-humor. “What infernal rascals 
these receivers of stolen goods are !” he grumbled. 

Though he had received only a small sum for 
his clothing, he probably felt that the kindness 
of his companion ought to be rewarded, for May 
proposed that they should take a drink together, 
and they entered a wine-shop near by for the 
purpose. They remained there more than an 
hour, drinking together, and left that only to 
enter a saloon a hundred paces distant. 

Turned out by the proprietor, who was closing 
his store, the friends took refuge in the next one 
that remained open. The owner drove them 
from this, and they hurried to another, then to 
another. And so by drinking of bottles of wine, 
in very small glasses, they reached the Place 
Saint-Michel about one o’clock in the morning. 

But there they found nothing to drink; all the 
saloons were closed. 


298 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The two men then held a consultation together, 
and, after a short discussion, they walked arm- 
in-arm -in the direction of the Faubourg Saint- 
Germain, like a pair of friends. 

The liquor which they had imbibed in such 
great quantities seemed to produce its effect. 
They staggered considerably as they walked; 
they talked very loudly and both at the same time. 

In spite of the danger, Lecoq advanced near 
enough to seize some fragments of their conver- 
sation; and the words “a good stroke,” and 
“money enough to satisfy one,” reached his 
ears. Father Absinthe’s confidence wavered. 

“All this will end badly,” he murmured. 

“Do not be alarmed,” replied his friend. “I 
do not understand the maneuvers of these wily 
confederates, I frankly confess; but what does 
that matter, after all — now that the two men are 
together, I feel sure of success — sure. If one 
runs away, the other will remain, and Gevrol 
will soon see which is right, he or I!” 

Meanwhile, the pace of the two drunken men 
had slackened a trifle. 

By the air with which they examined the mag- 
nificent residences of the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
main, one would have suspected them of the 
worst intentions. 

On the Rue de Varennes, only a few steps 
from the Rue de la Chaise, they paused before 
the low wall that surrounded an immense garden. 

The man in the slouch hat now did the talk- 
ing. He was explaining to May — they could 
tell by his gestures — that the mansion to which 
this garden belonged fronted upon the Rue de 
Grenelle. 

“Bah!” growled Lecoq, “how much further 
will they carry this nonsense?” 

They carried it to assaulting the place. 

By the aid of his companion’s shoulders. May 
raised himself to a level with the wall, and an 
instant after they heard the sound of his fall in 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


299 


the garden. The man in the slouch hat re- 
mained in the street to watch. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The enigmatical fugitive had accomplished 
his strange, his inconceivable design so quickly 
that Lecoq had neither the time nor the desire 
to oppose him. 

His amazement at this unexpe^tbd misfortune 
was so great that for ten seconds it deprived him 
of the power of thought and of motion. 

But he quickly regained his self-possession,' 
and he decided upon his course with that rapid- 
ity of decision which is the good genius of men 
of action. With a sure eye he measured the dis- 
tance that separated him from May’s accomplice, 
and with three bounds he was upon him. 

The man tried to cry out; an iron hand stifled 
the cry in his throat. He tried to escape, and to 
beat off his assailant, but a vigorous kick flung 
him to the ground like an infant. 

Before he had time to think of further resist- 
ance ho was bound, gagged, lifted, and carried, 
half-suffocated, around the corner of the Rue do 
la Chaise. 

Not a word, not an exclamation, not an oath, 
not even a sound of scuffling — nothing. Any 
suspicious noise might have reached May, on the 
other side of the wall, and given him warning. 

“How strange!” murmured Father Absinthe, 
too much amazed to lend a very helping hand 
to his younger colleague. “How strange! Who 
would have supposed — ” 

“Oh, enough!” interrupted Lecoq, in that 
harsh, imperious voice which imminent peril al- 
wa,ys gives to energetic men. “Enough! — we 
will talk to-morrow. I must run away for an 
instant, and you will remain here. If May shows 
himself, capture him; do not allow him to es- 
cape. ’ ’ 


300 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I understand; but what is to be done with 
the man who is lying there?” 

“Let him be where he is. I have bound him 
securely, so there is nothing to fear from him. 
When the night- police pass, we will give him 
in charge—” He paused and listened. Not far 
off, they heard heavy and measured footsteps 
approaching. 

“There they are now,” said Father Absinthe. 

“Ah! I dared not hope it! I shall have a 
good chance now.” 

He had the opportunity he longed for; two 
policemen, whose attention had been attracted 
by the group they saw on the corner of the street, 
hastened toward him. 

In a few words, Lecoq explained the situation. 
It was decided that one of the police should take 
the accomplice to the station-house, and that the 
other should remain with Father Absinthe to 
cut off May’s retreat. 

“And now,” said Lecoq, “I will run round to 
the Rue de Grenelle and give the alarm. To 
whose house does this garden belong?” 

“What!” replied one of the policemen, in sur- 
prise, “do you not know the gardens of the Due 
de Sairmeuse, the famous duke who is a mil- 
lionaire ten times over, and who was formerly 
the friend — ” 

“I know, I know!” said Lecoq. 

“The thief must have fallen into a trap if he 
put his nose in there. They had a reception at 
the mansion this evening, as they do every Mon- 
day, and everybody in the house is up. The 
guests have scarcely departed. There were five 
or six carriages still at the door as we passed.” 

Lecoq darted away, more troubled by what he 
had just heard than he had been before. 

He understood now, that if May had entered 
this house, it was not for the purpose of commit- 
ting a robbery, but in the hope of throwing his 
pursuers off the track, and making his escape 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


301 


through the Rue de Grenelle, which he might 
easily have done unnoticed, in the bustle and con- 
fusion attending the departure of the guests. 

This last thought occurred to him on reaching 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse, a princely dwelling, 
whose immense fagade was brilliantly illumi- 
nated . The carriage of the last guest was just is- 
suing from the court-yard, several footmen were 
extinguishing the lights, and the Swiss, a tall 
and imposing man, dazzling to behold in his 
gorgeous livery, was just closing the heavy, 
double doors of the grand entrance. The detec- 
tive advanced toward this important personage. 

“Is this the Hotel de Sairmeuse?” he inquired. 

The Swiss suspended his labors to survey this 
audacious vagabond who ventured to question 
him, then in a harsh voice: “I advise you to 
pass on; I want none of your jesting.” 

Lecoq had forgotten that he was clad in the 
garb affected by Polyte Chupin. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I am not what I seem 
to be. I am an agent of the secret service, Mon- 
sieur Lecoq. Here is my card, if you will not 
take my word for it; and I came to tell you 
that an escaped criminal has just scaled the 
garden wall of the Hotel de Sairmeuse.” 

“A crim-in-al?” V 

The detective thought that’ a little exaggera- 
tion would do no harm, and perhaps insure him 
more ready aid. 

“Yes,” he replied; “and one of the most dan- 
gerous kind — an assassin who has the blood of 
three victims already on his hands. We have 
'just arrested his accomplice, who helped him 
over the wall.” . 

The ruby nose of the Swiss paled perceptibly. 

“I will summon the servants,” he faltered. 

Suiting the action to the word, he raised his 
hand to the bell-rope, which was used to announce 
the arrival of v^isitors; but Lecoq stopped him. 

“A word first!” said he. “Might not the 


302 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


fugitive have passed through the house, aud es- 
caped by this door, without being seen? In that 
case he would be far away by this time.’’ 

“Impossible!” 

“But why?” 

“Excuse me; I know what I am sajdng. First, 
the door opening into the garden is closed; it is 
opened only during grand receptions, not for our 
informal Monday receptions. Secondly, mon- 
seigneur requires me to stand upon the threshold 
of the door when he is receiving. To-day he 
repeated this order, and you may be sure that I 
have not disobeyed him.” 

“Since this is the case,” said Lecoq, slightly 
reassured, “we shall perhaps succeed in finding 
our man. Warn the servants, but without ring- 
ing the bell. The less noise we make, the greater 
will be our chance of success.” 

In a moment the fifty valets who people the 
ante-chambers, the stables, and the kitchens of 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse were gathered together. 

The great lanterns in the coach-houses and 
stables were lighted, and the entire garden was 
illuminated as by enchantment. 

“If May is concealed here,” thought Lecoq, 
delighted to see so many auxiliaries, “it is im- 
possible for him to escape.” 

But it was in vain that the gardens were thor- 
oughly explored again and again; no one was to 
be found. 

The houses where the gardening tools were 
kept, the green- houses, the summer-houses, the 
two rustic pavilions at the foot of the garden, 
even the dog-kennels, were scrupulously visited 
— in vain. 

The trees, with the exception of the horse- 
chestnut at the foot of the garden, were almost 
destitute of leaves, but they were not neglected 
on that account. An agile boy, armed with a 
lantern, climbed each tree, and explored even 
the topmost branches. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


303 


“The assassin must have gone out where he 
came in,” obstinately repeated the Swiss, who 
had armed himself with a huge pistol, and who 
would not let go his hold on Lecoq, fearing an 
accident, perhaps. 

To convince him of his error, it was necessary 
for Lecoq to place himself in communication 
with Father Absinthe and the two policemen on 
the other side of the wall, for the man who had 
taken the accomplice to the station-house had 
performed his duty and returned. 

They resporided by swearing that they had 
not taken their eyes off the wall, and that not 
so much as a mouse had crossed it. 

Until now, their explorations had been made 
in rather a hap-hazard manner, each person 
obeying his own inspiration; but they now rec- 
ognized the necessity of a methodically conducted 
search. 

Lecoq took such measures that not a corner, 
not a recess, should escape scrutiny. He was 
dividing the task between his willing assistants, 
when a newcomer appeared upon the scene. ^ 

It was a grave, smooth-faced gentleman, in 
the attire of a notary. 

“Monsieur Otto, 'monseigneur’s first valet de 
chambre,” the Swiss murmured in Lecoq’s ear. 

This important personage came on the part of 
M. le Due {he did not say, “monseigneur”), to 
inquire the meaning of all this uproar. 

When he had received an explanation, M. Otto 
condescended to compliment Lecoq on his effi- 
ciency, and to recommend that the hotel should 
be searched from garret to cellar. These precau- 
tions alone would allay the fears of Madame la 
Duchesse. He then departed; and the search 
began again with renewed ardor. 

A mouse concealed in the gardens of the Hotel 
de Sairmeuse could not have escaped discovery, 
so minute were the investigations. Not an ob- 
ject of any size was left undisturbed. The trees 


304 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


were examined leaf by leaf one might almost say. 
Occasionally the discouraged servants proposed 
to abandon the search, but Lecoq urged them on. 
He ran from one to the other, entreating and 
threatening by turns, swearing that he asked 
only one more effort, and that this effort would 
assuredly be crowned with success. 

Vain promises! The fugitive could not be 
found. 

The evidence now was conclusive. To persist 
in the search longer would be worse than folly. 
The young detective decided to recall his auxili- 
aries. ‘ ‘ That is enough, ’ ’ he said in a despondent 
voice. “It is now certain that the murderer is 
no longer in the garden.” 

Was he cowering in some corner of the im- 
mense house, white with fear, and trembling at 
the noise made by his pursuers? 

One might reasonably suppose this to be the 
case; and such was the opinion of all the ser- 
vants. Above all, such was the opinion of the 
Swiss, who renewed with growing assurance his 
affirmations of a few moments before. 

“I have not moved 'from the threshold of ^y 
door; and I should certainly have seen any per- 
son who passed out.” 

“Let us go to the house, then,” said Lecoq. 
“But first let me ask my companion, who is 
waiting for me in the street, to join me. It is 
unnecessary for him to remain there any longer. ” 

Father Absinthe responded to the summons. 
All the lower doors were carefully closed and 
guarded, and the search through the Hotel de 
Sairmeuse, one of the largest and most magnifi- 
cent residences in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, 
began. But all the marvels of the universe could 
not have won a single glance or a second’s atten- 
tion from Lecoq. All his mind— all his thoughs— 
were engrossed by the prisoner. 

It is certain that he traversed the superb draw- 
ing-rooms, an unrivaled picture-gallery, a mag- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


305 


nificent dining-room, with sideboards groaning 
beneath their load of massive plate, without see- 
ing a single object. 

He went on, hurrying forward the servants 
who were guiding and lighting him. He lifted 
heavy articles of furn^ure as easily as he would 
have lifted a feathery he moved the chairs and 
sofas, he explored cuplDoards and wardrobes, ex- 
amined hangings, curtains, portieres. 

No search could have been more complete. 
From the court-yard to the garret not a noo'k 
was left unexplored, not a corner was forgotten. 

After two hours of continuous work Lecoq 
returned to the first floor. Only five or six ser- 
vants had accompanied him on his tour of in- 
spection. The others had dropped off, one by 
one, wearying of this adventure, which had at 
first possessed the attractions of a pleasure party. 

“You have seen everything, gentlemen,” de- 
clared an old footman. 

“Everything !” interrupted the Swiss : “every- 
thing! Certainly not. There are the apartments 
of j^onseigneur and thosg of Madame la Duch- 
esse still to be explored.” 

“Alas!” murmured Lecoq, “what good would 
it do?” 

But the Swiss had already gone to rap gently 
at one of the doors opening into the hall. His 
'Itfterest equaled that of the detectives. They 
had seen the murderer enter; he had not seen 
him go out; therefore the man was in the hotel, 
and he wished him to be found; he desired it 
intensely. 

The door opened, and the grave and clean- 
shaven face of Otto, the first valet de chambre, 
showed itself. “What the devil do you want?” 
he demanded, in surly tones. 

“To enter monseigneur’s room,” replied the 
Swiss, “in order to see if the fugitive has not 
taken refuge there.” 

“Are you crazy?” exclaimed the head valet 


306 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


de chambre. “Where could they have entered 
here? and how? Besides, I cannot suffer Mon- 
sieur le Due to be disturbed. He has been at 
work all night, and he is just going to take a 
bath to rest himself before going to bed.” 

The Swiss seemed much vexed at this rebuff; 
and Lecoq was presenting his excuses, when a 
voice was heard, sa,ying: 

“Let these worthy men do their duty, Otto.” 

“ Ah ! do you hear that ? ’ ’ exclaimed the S wiss , 
triumphantly. 

“Very well, since Monsieur le Due permits. 
That being the case, come in, I will light you 
through the apartments.” 

Lecoq entered; but it was only for form’s 
sake that he walked through the different rooms : 
a library, an admirable writing-room, a charm- 
ing smoking-room. 

As he was passing through the bedroom, he 
had the honor of seeing M. le Due de Sairi||euse 
through the half-open door of a small white mar- 
ble bath-room. 

“Ah, well!” cried the duke, affably; “is the 
fugitive still invisible?” 

“Still invisible, monsieur,” Lecoq replied, re- 
spectfully. 

The valet de chambre did not share his mas- 
ter’s good- humor. 

“I think, gentlemen,” said he, “that you may 
spare yourself the trouble of visiting the apart- 
ments of Madame la Duchesse. It is a duty 
which we have taken upon ourselves — the women 
and I — and we have looked even in the bureau 
drawers.” 

Upon the landing the old footman, who had 
not ventured to enter his master’s apartments, 
was awaiting the detectives. 

He had doubtless received his orders, for he 
politely inquired if they desired anything, and 
if, after such a fatiguing night, they would not 
find some cold meat and a glass of wine accept- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


307 


able. Father Absinthe’s eyes sparkled. He prob- 
ably thought that in this quasi royal abode they 
must have delicious things to eat and drink — 
such viands, indeed, as he had never tasted in 
his life. But Lecoq bruskly refused, and left the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse, reluctantly followed by his 
old companion. 

The poor, disappointed young man was eager 
to be alone. For several hours he had been 
obliged to exert himself to the uttermost to con- 
ceal his rage and his despair. 

May escaped! vanished! evaporated! The 
thought drove him almost mad. What he had 
declared impossible had occurred. 

In his confidence and pride, he had declared 
that he would answer for the head of the pris- 
oner with his own life; and the prisoner had es- 
caped him — had slipped from between his fingers ! 

Wh^ he was once more in the street, he paused 
before^ather Absinthe, and, crossing his arms, 
demanded: “ Well! my old friend, what do you 
think of all this?” 

That good man shook his head, and in serene 
unconsciousness of his want of tact, responded : 
“I think that Gevrol will chuckle with delight.” 

At the name of this his most cruel enemy, 
Lecoq bounded from the ground like a wounded 
bull. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Gevrol has not won 
the battle yet. We have lost May; it is a great 
misfortune; but his accomplice remains in our 
hands. We hold this crafty man who has until 
now defeated, all our carefully arranged plans. 
He is certainly shrewd and devoted to his 
friends; but we will see if his devotion will 
withstand the prospect of hard labor in the pen- 
itentiary. And that is what awaits him, if lie 
is silent, and if he thus accepts the responsibility 
of aiding and abetting the prisoner’s escape. Oh ! 
I have no fears — M. Segmuller will know how 
to draw the truth out of him.” 

He brandished his clinched fist with a threat- 


308 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ening air; then, in calmer tones, he added: “But 
let us go to the station-house where he was car- 
ried. I wish to question him a little.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

It was now daylight, and nearly six o’clock; 
and when Father Absinthe and his companion 
reached the station-house, they found the super- 
intendent seated at a small table, making out his 
report. 

He did not move when they entered, failing to 
recognize them under their disguise. But when 
they mentioned their names, the chief rose with 
evident empressement, and extended his hand. 

“Upon my word!” said he, “I congratulate 
you on your capture of last night.” 

Father Absinthe and Lecoq exchanged an anx- 
ious look. 

“What capture?” they both asked in a breath. 

“The individual whom you sent me last night 
so carefully bound.” 

“Well?” 

The superintendent burst into a hearty laugh. 

“So you are ignorant of your good fortune. 
Ah! luck has favored you, and you will receive 
a very handsome reward.” 

“Pray tell us what we have captured?” de- 
manded Father Absinthe, impatiently. 

“A scoundrel of the deepest dye, an escaped 
convict, who has been missing for three months. 
You must have a description of him in your 
pocket — Joseph Couturier, in short.” 

On hearing these words, Lecoq became so 
frightfully pale that Father Absinthe, believing 
him to be about to fall, extended his arms. 

Some one hastened to bring a chair, and he 
seated himself. 

“Joseph Couturier,” he faltered, evidently un- 
conscious of what he was saying. “Joseph Cou- 
turier! an escaped convict!” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


309 


The superintendent certainly did not under- 
stand Lecoq’s agitation, any better than he un- 
derstood Father Absinthe’s discomfited air. 

“You have reason to be proud of your work; 
your success will make a sensation this morning. 
You have captured a famous prize. I can see 
Gevrol’s nose now, when he hears the news. 
Only yesterday he was boasting that he alone 
was capable of securing this dangerous rascal.” 

What irony could be more bitter than these 
compliments, after such an irreparable failure. 
They fell crushingly upon Lecoq, like so many 
blows of a hammer, wounding him so cruelly 
that he rose, and, summoning alL his energy, he 
said: “You must be mistaken. This man is 
not Couturier.” 

“I am not mistaken; you may be assured of 
that. In every respect he answers the descrip- 
tion appended to {he circular ordering his cap- 
ture. Even the little finger of his left hand is 
lacking, as mentioned in the order.” 

“Ah! that is a proof indeed!” groaned Father 
Absinthe. 

“It is, indeed. And I know another even 
more conclusive. Couturier is an old acquaint- 
ance of mine. I have had him in custody be- 
fore; and he recognized me last night as I rec- 
ognized him.” 

After this, further argument was impossible; 
so in an entirely different tone Lecoq remarked : 

“At least, my friend, you will allow me to ad- 
dress a few questions to your prisoner?” 

“Oh! as many as you like. But first, let us 
bar the door and place two of my men before it. 
This Couturier has a fondness for the open air, 
and he would not hesitate to dash out our brains 
if he saw a chance of escape.” 

After taking these precautions, the man was 
removed from the cage in which he had been con- 
fined. He advanced smilingly, having already 
recovered that nonchalant manner common to old 


310 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


offenders, who, when they are once in custody, 
seem to lose all feeling of anger against the po- 
lice; like gamblers who, having lost all, shake 
hands with their adversary. 

He at once recognized Lecoq. 

“Ah! it is you who did the business forme 
last night. You can boast of having a solid 
fist! You fell upon me very unexpectedly; and 
the back of my neck is still the worse for your 
caresses.” 

“Then, if I were to ask a favor of you, you 
would not be disposed to grant it?” 

“Oh, yes! all the same. I have no more mal- 
ice in my composition than a chicken ; and I 
rather like your face. What do you wish?” 

“I should like some information concerning 
your companion of last evening.” 

The man’s face darkened. “I really am un- 
able to give it to you,” he replied. 

“Why?” 

“Because I do not know him. I never saw 
him until last evening.” 

“It is hard to believe that. One does not take 
the first comer for an expedition like yours last 
evening. Before undertaking such a job with 
a man, one finds out something about him.” 

“I do not say that I have not been guilty of a 
stupid blunder. I could murder myself for it. 
There was nothing about the man to make me 
suspect that he was one of the secret-service. He 
spread a net for me, and I jumped into it. It 
was made for me, of course ; but it was not nec- 
essary for me to put my foot into it.” 

“You are mistaken, my man,” said Lecoq. 
“The individual did not belong to the police 
force. I pledge my word of honor, he did not.” 

For a moment Couturier surveyed Lecoq with 
a knowing air, as if he hoped to discover whether 
he was speaking the truth or attempting to de- 
ceive him. 

“I believe you,” he said, at last. “To prove 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


311 


it, I will tell you. how it all happened. I was 
dining alone last evening in a restaurant on the 
Rue Mouffetard, when that man came in and 
took a seat beside me. Naturally we began to 
talk ; and I thought him a very good sort of a 
fellow. Apropos of, I know not what, he men- 
tioned the fact that he had some clothing which 
he desired to sell; and I, glad to oblige him, 
took him to the house of a friend, who purchased 
them from him. 

“It was doing him a service, was it not? Well, 
he offered me something to drink, and I returned 
the compliment, so that by midnight I began to 
see double. 

“He chose this time to propose a plan, which 
would, he swore, enrich us both. It was to steal 
all the silver from a superb mansion. 

“There would be no risk for me; he would 
take charge of the whole affair. I had only to 
help him over the wall, and keep watch. 

“It was tempting — was it not? You would 
have thought so, had you been in my place. Still 
I hesitated. 

“But the man insisted. He swore that he 
was acquainted with the habits of the house. 
That Monday evening was a grand gala night 
there, and that on these evenings the servants 
did not lock up the place. After a little I con- 
sented.” 

A fleeting color tinged Lecoq’s pale cheeks. 

.re you sure that the man told you that the 
-Due de Sairmeuse received every Monday even- 
ing?” i o asked, eagerly. 

'‘Oeriainly; how else could I have known it! 
He even mentioned the name you uttered just 
now, a name binding in — euse.” 

A strao^ge, nardly admissible thought had 
just'flitt. d through Lecoq’s mind. 

“What ii it were he?” he said to himself. 
“What if May and the Duede Sairmeuse should 
be onp and the same person?” 


312 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


But he dismissed this idea, and despised him- 
self for entertaining it even for a moment. 

He cursed his inclination to look upon the 
romantic and impossible side of events. Why 
was it surprising that a man of the world, such 
as he supposed May to be, should know the day- 
chosen by the Due de Sairmeuse to receive his 
friends? 

He had nothing more to expect from Cou- 
turier. He thanked him, and after shaking 
hands with the superintendent, he departed, 
leaning upon Father Absinthe’s arm. 

For he really had need of a support. His 
limbs trembled beneath the weight of his bod}"; 
his head whirled, and he felt sick both in body 
and in mind. 

He had failed miserably, disgracefully. He 
had flattered himself that he possessed a genius 
for his calling, and how easy it had been to out- 
wit him. 

May, to rid himself of him, Lecoq, had only 
been obliged to throw him a pretended accom- 
plice, picked up by chance in a bar-room, as a 
hunter, who finds himself too hard pressed by a 
bear, throws him his glove. 

And, like a stupid beast, he had been deceived 
by this commonplace stratagem. 

Father Absinthe was rendered uneasy by his 
colleague’s evident dejection. 

“Where are we going?” he inquired; “to the 
Palais de Justice, or to the prefecture?” 

Lecoq shuddered on hearing this question, 
which brought him face to face with the horri- 
ble reality of his situation. 

“To the prefecture!” he responded. “Why 
should I go there? To expose myself to Gevrol’s 
insults, perhaps! I have not courage enough 
for that. Hor do I feel that I have strength to 
go to M. Segmuller and say: ‘Forgive me; you 
have judged me too favorably. I am a fool!’ ” 

“What are we to do?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


3ia 

“Ah! I do not know. Perhaps I shall embark 
for America — perhaps I will throw myself into 
the river.” 

He had proceeded about one hundred, feet, 
when he stopped short. 

“Ho!” he exclaimed, with a furious stamp of 
the foot. “Ho, this affair shall not end where 
it is. I have sworn that I will have the solution 
of this enigma — and I will have it!” 

For a moment he reflected; then, in a calmer 
voice, he added : 

“There is one man who can save us, a man 
who will see what I have not been able to see, who 
will understand what I could not understand. 
Let us go and ask counsel of him; my course 
will depend upon his response — come!” 


CHAPTER XL. 

After a day and a night like those through 
which they had just passed, one would have sup- 
posed that these Jjwo men must have felt an irre- 
sistible desire to sleep. 

But Lecoq was upheld by wounded vanity, 
intense disappointment, and a hope of revenge 
which was not 5^et extinguished. 

As for Father Absinthe, he was not unlike 
those poor horses attached to a hackney coach, 
and which, having forgotten that there is such 
a thing as repose, are no longer conscious of fa- 
tigue, and travel on until they fall dead. 

He felt that his limbs were failing him; but 
Lecoq said: “It is necessary, ” so he walked on. 

They went to Lecoq’s humble lodgings, where 
they laid aside their disguise, and, after break- 
fast, started again. 

It was to the Rue Saint-Lazare, a few steps 
from the prison, that the two men repaired. 
They entered one of the handsomest houses on 
the street, and inquired of the concierge: 

“Where is M. Tabaret?” 


314 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Ah! he is sick.” 

“Very sick?” inquired Lecoq, anxiously. 

“It is hard to tell,” replied the man; “it is 
his old trouble— gout.” 

And with an air of hypocritical commisera- 
tion, he added : 

“Monsieur is not wise to lead the life he does. 
Women are all very well, but at his age — ” 

The two detectives exchanged a meaning 
glance, and as soon as their backs were turned 
they began to laugh. They were still laughing 
when they rang the bell on the next floor. 

The buxom-looking woman ^who came to open 
the door informed them that her master would 
receive them, although he was conflned to his bed. 

“But the doctor is with him now,” she added.*. 
“Will the gentlemen wait until he has gone?” 

The gentlemen replying in the affirmative, she 
conducted them into a handsome library, and 
invited them to take a seat. 

This man whom Lecoq had come to consult 
was celebrated for his wonderful shrewdness, 
and his penetration exceeded the bounds of pos- 
sibility. 

He was an old employe. of the Mont-de-Piete, 
where he had held a position for forty-five years, 
just managing to exist upon his meager stipend. 

Enriched suddenly by an unexpected bequest, 
he at once asked for a dismissal, and the next 
day he began to long for this very employment 
that he had so often anathematized. 

He endeavored to divert his mind; he began 
to make a collection of old books; he piled up 
huge mountains of tattered and worm-eaten 
volumes in immense oaken chests. Vain at- 
tempts ! He could not shake off his ennui. 

He grew thin and yellow; his income of forty 
thousand francs was killing him, when a sudden 
inspiration came to his relief. 

It came to him one evening after reading the 
memoirs of a celebrated detective, one of those 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


31o 


men of subtle perception, soft as silk, supple as 
steel, whom justice sometimes sets upon the 
track of crime. 

“And I, also, am a detective!” he exclaimed. 

It was necessary for him to prove it. 

With a feverish interest, which dated from 
that day, he perused every book he could find 
that had any connection with such subjects: let- 
ters, memoirs, reports, pamphlets — everything. 

He was pursuing his education. If a crime 
was committed he started out in quest of all the 
details, and worked up the case by himself. 

But these platonic investigations did not suf- 
fice long. One evening he summoned all his 
resolution, and going on foot to the prefecture, 
humbly begged employment from the officials 
there. He was not very favorably received; 
applicants are numerous. But he pleaded his 
cause so adroitly that he was charged with some 
trifling commissions. He performed them ad- 
mirably. The difficult step had been taken. 

He was intrusted with others ; and he displayed 
a wonderful aptitude for his chosen work. 

The affairs of Madame B , the rich bank- 

er’s wife, made him famous. 

Consulted at a moment when the police had 
abandoned all hope of solving the mystery, he 
proved by A plus B, by a mathematical deduc- 
tion, so to speak, that the dear lady must have 
stolen from herself. He had told the truth. 

After that he was always called upon for coun- 
sel in obscure and difficult cases. 

It would be difficult to tell the status he held 
at the prefecture. When a person is employed, 
salary, compensation of some kind, is under- 
stood ; but this strange man had never consented 
to receive a penny. 

What he did he did for his own pleasure — for 
the gratification of a passion which had become 
his very life — for glory, for fame. 

When the funds allowed him seemed to him 


316 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


insufficient, he plunged his hands into his own 
pockets; and the men who were working with 
him never left him without carrying with them 
substantial tokens of his munificence. 

Of course, such a man had many enemies. 

For no compensation, he worked as much and 
far better than two inspectors of police. In call- 
ing him “spoil- trade,” they were not far from 
right. The sound of his name alone almost threw 
Gevrol into convulsions. And still the jealous 
inspector was always alluding to an error of 
which this remarkable man had been guilty. 

Inclined to obstinacy, like all enthusiastic 
men. Father Tabaret had once effected the con- 
viction of an innocent man — a poor little tailor, 
who was accused of killing his wife. This had 
the effect of cooling his ardor very perceptibly ; 
and afterward he seldom visited the prefecture. 

But, in spite of that, he remained the oracle, 
like those great lawyers who, having become dis- 
gusted with practice at the bar, still win great 
and glorious triumphs in their quiet studies, and 
lend to others the weapons which they no longer 
desire to wield themselves. When the authorities 
were undecided what course to pursue, they said: 
“Let us go and consult Tirauclair.” 

For this was the name by which he was 
known: a sobriquet derived from a phrase: 

“II faut que cela se tire au clair,” which was 
ever upon his lips. 

Perhaps this sobriquet aided him in the con- 
cealment of his occupation, which none of his 
personal friends had ever suspected. 

His disturbed life when he was working up a 
case, the strange visitors he received, his fre- 
quent and prolonged absence from home, were 
imputed to a very unseasonable inclination to 
gallantry on his part. 

His concierge was deceived as well as his 
friends. They laughed at his supposed infatu- 
ation; they called him an old libertine. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


317 


But people never once suspected that Tirau- 
clair and Tabaret were one and the same person. 

Lecoq was trying to gain hope and courage by 
reflecting upon the history of this eccentric man, 
when the housekeeper reappeared, announcing 
the departure of the physician. 

At the same time she opened a door and said : 

“This is monsieur’s room; these gentlemen 
can enter now.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

On a large canopied bed, sweating and pant- 
ing beneath his covers, lay the two-faced oracle, 
Tirauclair, of the prefecture — Tabaret, of the 
Rue Saint-Lazare. 

|t was impossible to believe that the owner of 
this face, in which stupidity seemed always dis- 
puting with perpetual astonishment, could pos- 
sess superior talent, or even an average amount 
of intelligence. 

With his retreating forehead, and his immense 
ears, his odiously retrousse nose, his tiny eyes 
and coarse, thick lips, M. Tabaret presented an 
excellent picture of an ignorant and stupid petty 
proprietor. 

When he went into the street the impudent 
gamins shouted after him; but his ugliness did 
not trouble him in the least, and he seemed to 
take pleasure in increasing his appearance of 
stupidity, delighting himself with the reflection 
that “he is not really a genius who seems to be 
one.” 

At the sight of the two detectives, whom he 
knew very well, the eyes of the sick man 
sparkled. 

“Good-morning, Lecoq, my boy,” said he. 
“Good-morning, my old Absinthe. So you 
think enough of poor Papa Tirauclair down 
there to come and see him?” 

“We iUfted your counsel. Monsieur Tabaret.” 


318 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


‘‘Ah, ha!” 

“We have just been as completely outwitted 
as if we were two children.” 

“What! was your man so very cunning?” 

Lecoq heaved a mighty sigh. “So cunning,” 
he replied, “that, if I were superstitious, I should 
say he was the very devil himself.” 

The face of the sick man wore a comical ex- 
pression of envy. 

“What! you have found a treasure like that, 
and, you complain! Why, it is a magnificent 
opportunity — a chance to be proud of! You see, 
my boys, everything has degenerated in these 
days. The race of great criminals is dying out 
— only their counterfeit remains — a crowd of low 
offenders who are not worth the shoe leather ex- 
pended in pursuing them. It is enough to dis- 
gust a detective, upon my word. No more 
trouble, emotion, anxiety and excitement. Now, 
when a crime is committed, the criminal is in 
jail the next day. One might take the omnibus 
and go to the culprit’s house and arrest him. 
One always finds him — the more is the pity. But 
what has your man been doing?” 

“He has killed three men.” 

“Oh! oh! oh!” said Father Tabaret in three 
different tones. This criminal was evidently 
superior to others of his species. 

“And where did it happen?” 

“In a saloon, near the SarHere.” 

“Oh! yes, I recollect; a man named May. The 
two murders were committed in the Widow 
Chupin’s cabin. I saw it mentioned in the Ga- 
zette des Trihunaux, and Fanferlot I’Ecureuil, 
who comes to see me, told me that you were 
strangely puzzled about the prisoner’s identity. 
So you are charged with investigating the af- 
fair? So much the better. Tell me all about it, 
and I will aid you with all my little power.” 

He suddenly checked himself, and lowering 
his voice, said : ^ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


319 


“But first do me the favor to rise; wait — when 
I shall make a sign to you, open that door there,, 
on the left, very suddenly. Mariette, my house- 
keeper, who is curiosity itself, is there listening. 
I hear her hair rubbing against the Jock — go!” 

The young detective obeyed, and Mariette, 
caught in the act, hastened away, pursued by 
her master’s sarcasms. 

“You might have known that you could not 
succeed at that!” he shouted after her. 

Though they were much nearer the door than 
Papa Tirauclair, neither Lecoq nor Father 
Absinthe had heard the slightest sound ; and 
they looked at each other, wondering whether 
their host had been playing a little farce for their 
benefit, or whether his sense of hearing really 
possessed the marvelous acuteness which this in- 
cident would indicate. 

“ISTow,” said Tabacet, settling himself more 
comfortably upon his pillows — “now I will 
listen to you, my boy. Mariette will not come 
back again.” 

On his way to Father Tabaret’s, Lecoq had 
busied himself in preparing his story; and it was 
in the clearest possible manner that he related 
all the details, all the incidents connected with 
this strange affair, from the moment in which 
Gevrol had forced open the door of the Poiviiere, 
to the instant when May had leaped over the 
garden wall at the Hotel de Sairmeuse. 

While Lecoq was telling his story. Father Ta- 
baret was transformed. 

His gout was entirely forgotten.' 

According to the different phases of the reci- 
tal, he turned and twisted upon his bed, uttered 
little cries of delight or disappointment, or lay 
motionless, plunged in a sort of ecstatic beati- 
tude, like an enthusiast in classical music, list- 
ening to some divine melody of the great Beetho- 
ven. 

“If I had been there! If only I had been 


320 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


there!” he murmured now and then through his 
set teeth. When'Lecoq’s story was ended, his 
host gave vent to his enthusiasm. 

“It is beautiful! it is grand!” he exclaimed. 
“And with just that one sentence: ‘It is the 
Prussians who are coming,’ for a starting-point! 
Lecoq, my boy, I must say that you have con- 
ducted this affair like an angel!” 

“Do you not mean to say like a fool?” de- 
manded the discouraged detective. 

“No, my friend, certainly not. You have re- 
joiced my old heart. I can die; I shall have a 
successor. I would like to embrace you in the 
name of logic. Ah ! that Gevrol who betrayed 
you — for he did betray you, there is no doubt 
about it — that obtuse and obstinate General, is 
not worthy to unloose the latchets of your shoes !” 

“You overpower me. Monsieur Tabaret!” in- 
terrupted Lecoq, who was not wholly convinced 
that his host was not mocking him; “but never- 
theless, May has disappeared ; and I have lost 
my reputation, before I had begun to make it.” 

“Do not be in such a hurry to reject my com- 
pliments,” responded Father Tabaret, with a 
horrible grimace. “I say that you have con- 
ducted this investigation very well; but it could 
have been done much better, very much better. 
You have a talent for this work, that is evident; 
but you lack experience ; you become elated by a 
trifling advantage, or you are discouraged by a 
mere nothing; you fail, and yet you persist in 
holding fast to a fixed idea, as a moth flutters 
about a candle. Then, you are young. But 
never mind that, it is a fault you will outgrow 
only too soon. And now, to speak frankly, I 
must tell you that you have made a great many 
blunders.” 

Lecoq hung his head like a schoolboy receiv- 
ing a reprimand from his teacher. Was he not 
a scholar, and was not this old man. his master? 

“I will now enumerate your mistakes,” con- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


321 


tinned Papa Tabaret, “and I will show you 
where you, on at least three occasions, have al- 
lowed an opportunity for solving this mystery 
to escape you.” 

“But, monsieur — ” 

“Chut! chut! my boy, let me talk awhile now. 
With what axiom did you start? With this: 
‘Always distrust appearances; believe precisely 
the contrary of what appears true, or even prob- 
able.’ ” 

‘^Yes, that is exactly what I said to myself.” 

“And it was a very wise conclusion. With 
that idea in your lantern to illumine your path, 
you ought to have gone straight to the truth. 
But you are young, as I said before; and the 
very first circumstance you find that seems at all 
probable, you forget entirely the rule that should 
govern your conduct. As soon as you meet a 
fact that seems more than probable, you swallow 
it as eagerly as a gudgeon swallows the bait.” 

This comparison could but pique the young 
detective. “I have not been, it seems to me, as 
simple as that,” he protested. 

“Bah! what did you. think, then, when you 
were told that M. d’Escorval had broken his leg, 
in alighting from his carriage.” 

“Believe! I believed what they told me, be- 
cause — ” 

He paused, and Papa Tirauclair burst into a 
hearty fit of laughing. “You believed it,” he 
said, “because it was a very plausible story.” 

“What would you have believed had you been 
in my place?” 

‘ ‘ Exactly the opposite of what they told me. I 
might have been mistaken; but it would be the 
logical conclusion of the course of reasoning I 
adopted at first.” 

This conclusion was so bold that Lecoq was 
disconcerted. “What!” he exclaimed; “do you 
suppose that M. d’Escorval’s falPis only a fic- 
tion? that he has not broken his leg?” 


322 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Papa Tabaret’s face suddenly assumed a seri- 
ous expression. “I do not suppose it,'' he re- 
plied; “I am sure of it.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

Lecoq’s confidence in the oracle he was con- 
sulting was very great; but even Papa Tirau- 
clair might be mistaken, and what he had just 
said seemed to be such an enormity, so c(^m- 
pletely beyond the bounds of possibility, that Le- 
coq could not hide a gesture of incredulity. 

“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are ready to affirm 
that M. d’Escorval is in as good health as Fa- 
ther Absinthe or myself; and that he has con- 
fined himself to his room for two months to give 
a semblance of truth to a falsehood?” 

“I would be willing to swear it.” 

“But what could have been his object?” 

Tabaret lifted his hands to Heaven, as if im- 
ploring forgiveness for the man’s stupidity. 

“And it was in you— in you that I saw a suc- 
cessor, and a continuator of my method of in- 
duction; and now, you ask me such a question 
as that! Reflect a moment. Must I give you 
an example to aid you? Very well. Suppose 
yourself a judge. A crime is committed; you 
are charged with the duty of investigating it, 
and you visit the prisoner to question him. Very 
well. This prisoner has, up to that time, suc- 
ceeded in concealing his identity — this was the 
truth in the present case, was it not? Very well. 
What would you do, if, at the very first glance, 
you recognized, under the disguise of the pris- 
oner, your best friend, or your bitterest enemy? 
What would you do, I say?” 

“I should say to myself that a magistrate who 
is obliged to hesitate between his duty and his 
inclinations is placed in a very trying position, 
and I should endeavor to avoid it.” 

“I understand that; but would you reveal the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


323 


true personality of this prisoner (your friend, or 
your enemy, as the case might be), if you alone 
knew it?” 

It was such a delicate question, the answer 
was so difficult, that Lecoq was silent, reflecting. 

“I would reveal nothing whatever!” ex- 
claimed Father Absinthe. “I would remain ab- 
solutely neutral. I should tel! myself that others 
were trying to discover his identity; and they 
might do it if they could — but my conscience 
should be clear. ’ ’ It was ihe cry of honesty ; not 
the counsel of a casuist. 

“I should also be silent,” replied Lecoq, at 
last; “and it seems to me that, in keeping si- 
lence, I should not fail in the obligation of a 
magistratie. ” 

Papa Tabaret rubbed his hands vigorously, as 
he always did when he was about to present 
some overwhelming argument. 

“Such being the case,” said he, “do me the 
favor to tell me what pretext you would invent 
in order to withdraw from the case without 
arousing suspicion?” 

“I do not know; I cannot say now. But if I 
were placed in such a position I should find some 
excuse — invent something — ” 

“And if you could find nothing better,” inter- 
rupted Tabaret, “you would adopt M. d’Escor- 
val’s expedient; you would pretend that you had 
broken some limb. Only, as you are a clever fel- 
low, it would be your arm that you would sac- 
rifice. It would be less inconvenient ; and you 
would not be condemned to seclusion for several 
months.” 

“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are convinced that 
M. d’Escorval knows who May really is?” 

Father Tirauclair turned so suddenly in his 
bed that his forgotten gout drew from him a ter- 
rible groan. 

“Can you doubt it?” he exclaimed. “Can 
you possibly doubt it? What proofs do you ask. 


324 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


then? What connection do you see between the 
fail of the judge and the prisoner’s attempt at 
suicide? I was not there, -as you were; I know 
the story only as you have told it to me. I could 
not see it with my own eyes; but this is as I un- 
derstand it — listen: 

“M. d’Escorval, his task at the Widow Chu- 
pin’s house completed, comes to the prison to ex- 
amine the assassin. The two men recognize each 
other. Had they been alone, mutual explana- 
tions might have ensued, and affairs taken quite 
a different turn. 

“But they were not alone; a third party was 
present — M. d’Escorval’s clerk. So they could 
say nothing. The judge, in a troubled voice, 
asked a few commonplace questions; the pris- 
oner, terribly agitated, replied as best he could. 

“After leaving the cell, M. d’Escorval said to 
himself: ‘No, I cannot decide in the case of a 
man whom I hate! ’ 

“He was terribly perplexed. When you tried 
to speak to him, as he was leaving the prison, he 
harshly told you to wait until to-morrow; and a 
quarter of an hour later he pretended to fall.” 

“Then you think that M. d’Escorval and this 
so-called May are enemies?” inquired Lecoq. 

“Do not the facts demonstrate that beyond a 
doubt?” asked Tabaret. “If they were friends, 
the judge might have done the" same exactly; 
but the prisoner would not have attempted to 
strangle himself. 

“But, thanks to you, his life was saved; for 
he owes his life to you. During the night, con- 
fined in a strait- jacket, he was powerless to in- 
jure himself. Ah! how he must have suffered 
that night! What agony! 

“So, in the morning, when he was conducted 
to the cabinet of the judge for examination, it 
was with a sort of frenzy that he dashed into the 
dreaded presence of his enemy. He expected 
to find M. d’Escorval there ready to triumph, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


325 


over his misfortunes; and he intended to say; 
‘ Yes, it is I. There is a fatality in it. I 
have killed three men, and I am in your power. 
But, for the very reason that there is a mortal 
hatred between us, you owe it to yourself not to 
prolong my tortures! It would be infamous 
cowardice in you to do sol’ • 

“But, instead of M. d’Escorval, ' he sees M. 
Segmuller. Then what happens? He is sur- 
prised, and his eye betrays the astonishment he 
feels when he realizes the generosity of his 
enemy, whom he had believed implacable. 

“Then a smile mounts to his lips — a smile of 
hope; for he thinks, since M. d’Escorval has not 
betrayed his secret, that he may be able to pre- 
serve it, and that he may, perhaps, emerge from 
this shadow of shame and of crime with his name 
and his honor still untarnished.” 

And with a sudden change of tone, and an 
ironical gesture. Papa Tabaret added : 

“And that — is my explanation.” 

Old Father Absinthe had risen, frantic with 
delight. CristiV he exclaimed; “that is it! 
that is it!” Lecoq’s approbation was none the 
less evident, because it was mute. 

He could appreciate this rapid and wonderful 
work of induction far better than his companion. 

For a moment or two Papa Tabaret reclined 
upon his pillows enjoying the sweets of admira- 
tion, then he continued; 

“Do you desire further proofs, my boy? Recol- 
lect the perseverance M. d’Escorval displayed 
in sending to M. Segmuller for information. I 
admit that a man may have a passion for his 
profession ; but not to such an extent as this. At 
that time you believed that his leg was broken. 
How is it that you felt no surprise that a judge, 
lying upon the rack, with his bones in fragments, 
should take so much interest in a miserable mur- 
derer? I have no broken bones, I have only the 
gout; but I know very well that when I am suf- 


326 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


fering half the world might be judging the other 
half, and the idea of sending Mariette for infor- 
mation would nev^er occur to me. Ah! a mo- 
ment’s reflection would have enabled you to 
understand his solicitude, and would probably 
have given you the key to the whole mystery.” 

Lecoq, who was such a brilliant casuist in the 
Widow Chupin’s hovel, who was so full of con- 
fidence in himself, and so earnest in expounding 
his theories to simple Father Absinthe — Lecoq 
hung his head abashed and did not utter a word. 

But he felt neither anger nor impatience. He 
had come to ask advice, and, strange to say, he 
thought it quite right that it should be given him. 

He had made mistakes, and when they were 
pointed out to him, he did not become angry — 
another marvel! — and he did not try to prove 
that he had been right when he had been wrong. 

Meanwhile, M. Tabaret had poured out a great 
glass of tisane and drained it. He resumed : 

“I need not remind you of the mistake you 
made in not obliging Toinon Chupin to tell you 
all she knew about this affair while she was in 
your power. ‘A bird in the hand’ — you know 
the proverb.” 

“Be assured. Monsieur Tabaret, that this mis- 
take has cost me enough to make me realize the 
danger of ever allowing the zeal of a well-dis- 
posed witness to cool.” 

“We will say no more about that, then. But 
I must tell you that three or four times, at least, 
it has been in your power to clear up this mys- 
tery.” He paused, awaiting some protestation 
from his disciple. None came. 

“If he says this,” thought the young detec- 
tive, “it must indeed be so.” 

This discretion made a great impression on 
Papa Tabaret, and increased the esteem he had 
conceived for Lecoq. 

“The first time that you were lacking in dis- 
cretion was when you were trying to discover 


MONSIEUR LECOQ.' 327 

the owner of the diamond ear-ring found in the 
Poivriere.” 

“I made every effort to discover the iast 
owner.” 

“You tried very hard, I do not deny that; but 
as for making every effort, that is saying too 
much. For example, when you heard that the 
Baroness de W atchau was dead, and that all her 
property Had been sold, what did you do?” 

“You know; I went immediately to the per- 
son who had charge of the sale.” 

“Very well! and afterward?” 

“I examined the catalogue; and as, among 
the jewels mentioned there, I could find none 
that answered the description of these magnifi- 
cent diamonds, I knew that the ‘clew was lost 
entirely.” 

“There is precisely where you are mistaken!” 
exclaimed Papa Tirauclair, exultingly. “If a 
jewel of such great value is not mentioned in 
the catalogue of the sale the Baroness de W atchau 
could not have possessed it at the time of her 
death. And if she no longer possessed it she 
must have given it away, or sold it. And to 
whom? To one of Tier friends, very probably. 

“For this reason, had I been in your place, I 
should have inquired the names of her intimate 
friends, which would have been a very easy task; 
and then, I should have tried to win the favor of 
all t\\Q femmes-de-chamhreoi these lady friends. 
This would have been only a pastime for a good- 
looking young fellow like you. 

“Then,” he continued, “I would have shown 
this ear-ring to each maid in succession until I 
found one who said: ‘This diamond belongs to 
my mistress,’ or one who was seized with a ner- 
vous trembling.” 

“And to think that this idea did not once occur 
to me!” 

“Wait, wait. I am coming to the second mis- 
take you made. What did you do when you 


328 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


obtained possession of the trunk which May pre- 
tended was his? You played directly into this 
cunning adversary’s hand. How could you fail 
to see that this trunk was only an accessory to 
the comedy, that it could only have been depos- 
ited with Mme. Milner by the accomplice, and 
that all its contents must have been purchased 
for the occasion.” 

“I knew this, of course; but even under these 
circumstances, what could I do?” 

“What could you do, my boy? Well, I am 
only a poor old man, but I would have inter- 
viewed every clothier in Paris; and at last some 
one of them would have exclaimed: ‘Those arti- 
cles! Why, I sold them to an individual like 
this or that — who purchased them for one of his 
friends whose measure he brought with him.’ ” 

Angry with himself, Lecoq struck his clinched 
hand violently^ upon the table by his side. 

Sacrehleu! he exclaimed, “that method 
was infallible and as simple as the day. Ah! 
never while I live shall I forgive myself for my 
•stupidity!” 

“Gently, gently !” interrupted the sick man; 
“you are going too far, my dear boy. Stupidity 
is not the proper word at all; you should say 
carelessness, thoughtlessness. You are young — 
what else could one expect? What is far less in- 
excusable is the manner in which you conducted 
the chase, after the prisoner was allowed to 
escape.” 

“Adas!” murmured the young man, now com- 
pletely discouraged; “did I blunder in that?” 

“Terribly, my son; and here is where I really 
blame you. What diabolical influence induced 
you to follow this May, step by step, like a com- 
mon policeman?” 

This time Lecoq was stupefied. “Ought I to 
have allowed him to escape me?” he inquired. 

“Ho; but if I had been by your side when, 
beneath the gallery of the Odeon, you so clearly 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


329 


divined the prisoner’s intentions, I should have 
said to you: ‘This fellow, friend Lecoq, will 
hasten to the house of Mme. Milner to inform 
her of his escape. Let us run after him. ’ And 
when he had left the Hotel de Mariembourg, I 
should have added: ‘Now, let him go where he 
chooses; but attach yourself to Mme Milner; do 
not lose sight of her; cling *to her as closely as 
her own shadow, for she will conduct you to the 
accomplice — that is to say — to the solution of the 
mystery.” 

“That is the truth; I see it now.” 

“But instead of that, what did you do? You 
ran to the hotel; you terrified the boy! When a 
fisherman has hold of the seine, and is ready to 
draw in the fish, he does not beat the drum to 
frighten them away!” 

Papa Tabaret thus reviewed the entire course 
of instruction, remodeling it in accordance with 
his method of induction. 

Lecoq had, at first, had a magnificent inspira- 
tion. In his first investigations he had dis- 
played remarkable talent; and yet he had not 
succeeded. Why? Simply because he had neg- 
lected the axiom with which he started: “Al- 
ways distrust what seems probable!” 

But the young man listened with divided at- 
tention. A thousand projects were darting 
through his brain. Soon he could restrain him- 
self no longer. 

“You have saved me from despair, monsieur,” 
he interrupted. “I thought all was lost; but I 
see that my blunders can be repaired. What I 
neglected to do, I can do now; there is still time. 
Have I not the diamond ear-ring, as well as di- 
vers effects of the prisoner still in my possession. 
Mme. Milner still owns the Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg, and I am going to watch it.” 

“And with what object, my boy?” 

“For what object? Why, to find my prisoner, 
to be sure!” 


330 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Had he been less engrossed in his idea, Lecoq 
would have detected a slight smile in Tirau- 
clair’s thick lips. 

“Ah! my son, is it possible that you do not 
suspect the real name of this pretended buffoon?” 

Lecoq trembled and turned away his face. He 
did not wish Tabaret to see his eyes. 

. “No,” he replied,* “I do not suspect — ” 

“You are uttering a falsehood!” interrupted 
the sick man. “You know, as well as I do, that 
May resides on the Hue de Grenelle-Saint-Ger- 
main, and that he is known as M. le Due de 
Sairmeuse.” 

On hearing these words. Father Absinthe 
laughed heartily. “Ah! that is a good joke!” 
he exclaimed. “Ah, ha!” 

Such was not Lecoq’s opinion, however. 

“Well, yes. Monsieur Tabaret,” said he, “this 
idea did occur to me; but I drove it away.” 

“And why, if you please?” 

‘ ‘ Because — because — ’ ’ 

“Because you would not believe the logical 
sequence of your premises; but I am consistent, 
and I say: ‘It seems impossible that the assassin 
in the cabin of the Widow Chupin should be the 
Duke de Sairmeuse.’ Hence the murderer in 
the Chupin cabin. May, the pretended buffoon, 
is the Due de Sairmeuse!” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

How this idea had entered Papa Tabaret’s 
head, Lecoq could not comprehend. 

A vague suspicion had, it is true, flitted 
through his own mind; but it was at a moment 
when his despair at seeing his prisoner elude his 
grasp, as well as certain words uttered by Cou- 
turier, would furnish an excuse for almost any 
supposition. 

But Father Tirauclair calmly — in cold blood, 
so to speak — announced as an undeniable fact a 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


331 


suspicion which he, Lecoq, had not dared to en- 
tertain, even for an instant, in his wildest ex- 
citement. The sick man could not fail to no- 
tice the amazement of his visitor, 

“You look as if you had suddenly fallen from 
the clouds,” said he. “Do you suppose that I 
spoke at random like a parrot?” 

“No, certainly not, monsieur; but — ” 

“Hush! You are surprised because you know 
nothing of contemporaneous history. If you do 
not wish to remain all your life a common de- 
tective, like your friend Grevrol, you must in- 
form yourself on this subject.” 

“I confess that I do not see the connection.” 

M. Tabaret deigned no response. Turning to 
Father Absinthe, and addressing him in the 
most affable tones, he said : 

“Do me the favor, my old friend, to go to my 
library and bring me two large volumes entitled : 
‘General Biography of the Men of the Present 
Age.’ They are in the book-case on the right.” 

Father Absinthe hastened to obey; and as 
soon as he was in possession of the books, M. 
Tabaret began turning the pages with an eager 
hand, like a person seeking some word in a dic- 
tionary. 

“Esbayron,” he muttered, “Escars, Escayrac, 
Escher, Escodica — at last we have it — Escorval! 
Listen attentively, my boy, and you will be en- 
lightened.” 

This injunction was entirely unnecessary. 
Never had the young detective’s faculties been 
more keenly on the alert. It was in an em- 
phatic voice that the sick man read : 

“ ‘Escorval (Louis Guillaume, baron d’). — 
Diplomatist and politician, born in Montaignac, 
December 3, 1769, of an old family of lawyers. 
He was completing his studies in Paris on the 
breaking out of the Revolution. He embraced 
the cause with all the ardor of youth. But soon 
disapproving the excesses committed in the name 


832 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


of liberty, he sided with the Reactionists, coun- 
seled, perhaps, by Roederer, who was one of his 
relatives. 

“ ‘Commended to the favor of the first consul 
by M. de Talleyrand, he entered upon his diplo- 
matic career with a mission to Switzerland; and 
during the existence of the empire he was in- 
trusted with many very important negotiations. 

“ ‘Devoted body and soul to the emperor, he 
found himself gravely compromised by the Sec- 
ond Restoration. 

“ ‘At the time of the disturbances in Mon- 
taignac, he was arrested on the double charge of 
high treason and conspiracy. He was tried by 
a military commission and condemned to death. 

“ ‘The sentence was not executed, however. 
He owed his life to the noble devotion and heroic 
energy of a priest, one of his friends, the Abbe 
Midon, cure of the little village of Sairmeuse. 

“ ‘The Baron d’Escorval had only one son, 
who entered upon the duties of magistrate at a 
very early age.’ ” 

Lecoq was intensely disappointed. 

“I understand,” he remarked. “It is the bi- 
ography of the father of our judge. Only* I do 
not see that it teaches us anything.” 

An ironical smile curved Father Tirauclair’s 
lips. “It teaches us that M. d’Escorval’s father 
was condemned to death,” he replied. “That 
is something, I assure you. A little patience, 
you will soon know all.” He had found a new 
leaf, and he continued his reading: 

“ ‘Sairmeuse (Anne-Marie-Victor de Tingry, 
Due de). — A French general and politician, born 
at the Chateau de Sairmeuse, near Montaignac, 
January 17, 1758. The Sairmeuse is one of the 
oldest and most illustrious in France. It must 
not be confounded with the ducal family De Ser- 
meuse, whose name is written with an e. 

“ ‘Leaving France at the beginning of the 
Revolution, Anne de Sairmeuse distinguished 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


333 


himself by his brilliant exploits in the army of 
Conde. Some years later he offered his sword 
to Russia; and it is asserted by some of his bi- 
ographers that he was fighting in the Russian 
ranks at the time of the disastrous retreat from 
Moscow. 

“ ‘Returning to France with the Bourbons, he 
became quite famous by reason of the intensity 
of his ultra-royalist opinions. It is certain that 
he had the good fortune to regain the possession 
of his immense family estates ; and the rank and 
dignities which he had gained in foreign lands 
were confirmed. 

“ ‘Appointed by the king to serve upon the 
military commission charged with bringing to 
justice and trying the conspirators of Mon- 
taignac, he displayed a severity and a zeal that 
resulted in the capture and conviction of all the 
parties implicated.' ” 

Lecoq sprang up with sparkling eyes. “I see 
it clearly now,” he exclaimed. “The father of 
the*present Duke de Sairmeuse tried to have the 
father of the present M. d’Escorval beheaded.” 

M. Tabaret was the picture of complacency. 

“You see the assistance history gives,” said 
he. “But I have not finished, my boy; the pres- 
ent Duke de Sairmeuse also has his article, that 
will be of interest to us. So listen : 

“ ‘Sairmeuse (Anne-Maria-Martial). — Son of 
the preceding, was born in London in 1791, re- 
ceived his early education in England, and com- 
pleted it at the Court of Austria, which he has 
since visited on several confidential missions. 

“ ‘Heir of the opinions, the prejudices, and 
the animosities of his father, he placed at the 
service of his party a highly cultivated intellect, 
unusual penetration, and extraordinary abilities. 
A leader at the time when political passion was 
raging highest, he had the courage to assume 
the sole responsibility of the most extreme meas- 
ures. Obliged to retire from office on account of 


334 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


general animadversion, he left behind him ill- 
will and hatred, which will be extinguished only 
with his life.’ ” 

The sick man closed the book, and with as- 
sumed modesty, he asked : “Ah, 'well! What 
do you think of m}^ little method of induction?” 

But Lecoq was too much engrossed with his 
own thoughts to respoii(l. 

“I think,” he remarked, “if the Duke de Sair- 
meuse had disappeared for two months, the peri- 
od of May’s imprisonment, all Paris would have 
known it, and so — ” 

“You are dreaming!” interrupted Father Ta- 
haret. “With his wife and his valet de chain- 
hre for accomplices, the duke could absent him- 
self for a year if he wished, and all his servants 
would believe him in the hotel.” 

“I admit that,” said Lecoq, at last; “but, un- 
fortunately, there is one circumstance which 
overturns this theory we have built up so labo- 
riously.” 

“And what is that, if you please?” 

“If the man who took part in the broil at the 
Poivriere had been the Duke de Sairmeuse, he 
would have disclosed his name — he would have 
declared that, having been attacked, he had only 
defended himself — and his name alone would 
have opened the prison-doors for him. Instead 
of that, what did this prisoner do? He attempted 
to kill himself. Would a grand seigneur, like 
the Duke de Sairmeuse, to whom life must be a 
perpetual enchantment, have thought of commit- 
ting suicide?” 

A mocking whistle from Father Tabaret in- 
terrupted the speaker. 

“You seem to have forgotten the last sentence 
in the paragraph: ‘M. Sairmeuse leaves behind 
him ill-will and hatred.’ Do you know the price 
he might have been compelled to pay for his lib- 
erty? No— no more do I. To explain his pres- 
ence at the Poivriere, and the presence of a wo- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


335 


man who was, perhaps, his wife, who knows 
what disgraceful secrets he would be obliged to 
betray? Between shame and suicide, he chose 
suicide. He wished to save his name and his 
honor intact.” 

Father Tirauclair spoke with such vehemence 
that even old Father Absinthe was deeply im- 
pressed, although, to tell the truth, he had under- 
stood but little of the conversation. 

He was now delighted and confident. 

As for Lecoq, he rose, very pale, his lips trem- 
bling a little — like a man who has just taken an 
invincible determination. 

“You will excuse my hypocrisy. Father Ta- 
baret,” he said, in an agitated voice. “I had 
thought of all this — but I distrusted myself. I 
wished to hear you say it.” 

Then, with an imperious gesture, he added : 

“Now, I know what I have to do.” 

Father Tabaret lifted his hands toward heaven 
with every sign of intense dismay. 

“Unhappy man!” he exclaimed; “do you 
think of going to arrest the Duke de Sairmeuse? 
Poor Lecoq ! Free, this man is almost omnipo- 
tent, and you, an infinitesimal agent of police, 
will be broken like glass. Take care, my boy, 
do not attack the duke. I would not be respon- 
sible, even for your life.” 

The young detective shook his head. 

“Oh! I do not deceive myself,” said he. “1 
know that the duke is now beyond my reach. 
But he will be in my power again on the day I 
learn his secret. I do not fear danger; but I 
know, if 1 would succeed, I must conceal myself 
— I will conceal myself then. Yes, I will remain 
in shadow until the day when I can remove the 
veil from this mystery — then, I will appear in 
my true character. And if May is really the 
Duke de Sairmeuse— I shall have my revenge.” 


END OF VOL. I. 


^ ^ obtain 3 valuable books OQ 

B ^5 i*C horses, cows, pi.£?:s, poultry, dogs, Canary 

o? ■;Si/S‘er <S?e 

^ Pk S treatment in heaitli 

and disease, free, by Dr. 

LOVERS OF biros SSS?’^SS'^st4^t! 

Philadelphia, Pa. Inventor of the oldest, strongest and best Cattle Pow- 
der made. 4 doses free, by mail. 



wimoMurajii 


It’s hard getting through 

with your washing and 
cleaning, if you don’t use 
Pearline. And you can 
^ '’se it, with great gain, 
A upon anything that you 
want made clean. In 
washing clothes, perhaps 
you won’t believe that 
Pearline is harmless. It 
has been proved so to millions of women, over 
and over again, but perhaps you won’t be con- 
vinced. Then use it for something that can’t 
be hurt. Use it for washing dishes, for instance, 
and save work. Wlien you come to know it 
better and let it wash the clothes, you’ll find that 
it saves the wear and tear as well as the work. 

Beware of imitations. 338 JAMES PYLE, New York. 




Carl L. Jensen’s Crystal Pepsin Tablets will cure Dyspepsia and will pre- 
vent Indigestion from rich food. Dose 1 tablet after each meal. Delivered 
by mail for 50e. in stamps. Carl L. Jensen Co., 400 North j™ P" 

Third Street Philadelphia, Pa. Samples and Circulars f" ^ 

( 336 ) 


MONSIEUI? LECOQ 



FROM THE FRENCH OF 

EMILE '^ABORI AU 


Translated by Mrs. Laura E. Kendall 


^4 


JN THREE VOLUMES— VOLUME II 



New York 

PETER FENELON COLLIER 
. 1894 




Like a Novel 

is the story of the way people 
gain Flesh and Strength and recov- 
er from Coughs, Colds and Lung 
Diseases by taking 


cottas 




of Cod-Liver Oil, with hypophos- 
phites of lime and soda. No mys- 
tery about it, however; simply a 
food rich in nourishment. Physicians^ 
the world over, endorse it. 


Wlien suffering from ja. weak, emaci- 
ated condition you should take Scott’s 
Emulsion at once to avoid disease. 


Prepared by SCOTT & BOWNE, N. Y. Druggists sell it. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


THE HONOR OF THE NAME, 


CHAPTER I. 

On the first Sunday in the month of August, 1815, at 
ten o’clock precisely — as on every Sunday morning — the 
sacristan of the parish church at Sairmeuse sounded 
the three strokes of the bell which warn the faithful 
that the priest is ascending the steps of the altar to cele- 
brate hign mass. 

The church was already more than half full, and from 
every side little groups of peasants were hurrying into 
the churchyard. The women were all in their bravest 
attire, with cunning little fichus crossed upon their 
breasts, broad-striped, brightly- colored skirts, and large 
white coifs. 

Being as economical as they were coquettish, they 
came barefooted, bringing their shoes in their hands, but 
put them on reverentially before entering the house of 
God. 

But few of the men entered the church. They re- 
mained outside to talk, seating themselves in the porch, 
or standing about the yard, in the shade of the century- 
old elms. * ... y , 


4 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


For such was the custom in the hamlet of Sairmeuse. 

The two hours which the women consecrated to prayer 
the men employed in discussing the news, the success 
or the failure of the crops; and, before the service 
ended, 'they could generally be found, glass in hand, in 
the bar-roo^ of the village inn. 

For the farmers for a league around, the Sunday mass 
was only an excuse for a reunion, a sort of weekly bourse. 

All the mres who had been successively stationed at 
Sairmeuse had endeavored to put an end to this scanda- 
lous habit, as they termed it ; but all their efforts had 
made no impression upon country obstinacy. 

They had. succeeded in gaining only one concession. 
At the moment of the elevation of the Host voices were 
hushed, heads uncovered, and a few even bowed the knee 
and made the sign of the cross. 

But this was the affair of an instant only, and conver- 
sation was immediately resumed with increased vivacity. 

But to-day the usual animation was wanting. 

No sound came from the little knots of men gathered 
here and there, not an oath, not a laugh. Between buy- 
ers and sellers, one did not overhear a single one of those 
interminable discussions, punctuated with the popular 
oaths, such as: “By my faith in God!” or, “May the 
devil burn me !” 

They were not talking, they" were whispering together. * 
A gloomy sadness was visible upon each face ; lips were 
placed cautiously at the listener’s ear ; anxiety could be 
^read in every eye. 

One scented misfortune in the very air. 

Only a month had elapsed since Louis XVIII. had been, 
for the second time, installed in the Tuileries by a tri- 
umphant coalition. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


5 


The earth had not yet had time to swallow the sea of 
blood that flowed at Waterloo; twelve hundred thou- 
sand foreign soldiers desecrated the soil of France ; the 
Prussian General Mufflin was Governor of Paris. 

And the peasantry of Sairmeuse trembled with indig- 
nation and fear. 

This king, brought back by the allies, was no less to be 
dreaded than the allies themselves. 

To them this great name of Bourbon signifled only a . 
terrible burden of taxation and oppression. 

Above all, it signified ruin — for there was scarcely one 
among them who had not purchased some morsel of gov- 
ernment land ; and they were assured now that all estates 
were to be returned to the former proprietors, who had 
emigrated after the overthrow of the Bourbons. 

Hence it was with a feverish curiosity that most of 
them clustered around a young man wdio, only two days 
before, had returned from the army. 

With tears of rage in his eyes, he was recounting the 
shame and the misery of the invasion. 

He told of the pillage at Versailles, the exactions at 
Orleans, and the pitiless requisitions that had stripped 
the people of everything. 

“And these accursed foreigners, to whom the traitors 
have delivered us, will not go so long as a shilling or 
bottle of wine is left in France !“ he exclaimed. 

As he said this he shook his clinched fist menacingly 
at a white flag that floated from the tower. 

His generous anger won the close attention of liis 
auditors, and they were still listening to him with un- 
diminished interest, when the sound of a horse’s hoofs 
resounded upon the stones of the only street in Sair- 


meuse. 


6 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


A shudder traversed the crowd. The same fear stopped 
the beating of every heart. 

Who could say that this rider was not some English or 
Prussian officer? He had come, perhaps, to announce 
the arrival of his regiment, and imperiously demand 
money, clothing and food for his soldiers. 

But the suspense was not of long duration. 

The rider proved to be a fellow-countryman, clad in 
a torn and dirty blue linen blouse. He was urging for- 
ward, with repeated blows, a little, bony, nervous mare 
covered with foam. 

“Ah I it is Father Chupin,” murmured one of the peas- 
ants, with a sigh of relief. 

“The same,” observed another. “He seems to be in a 
terrible hurry.” 

“The old rascal has probably stolen the horse he is 
riding.” 

This last remark disclosed the reputation Father Chupin 
enjoyed among his neighbors. 

He was, indeed, one of those thieves who are the 
scourge and the terror of the rural districts. He pre- 
tended to be a day-laborer, but the truth was that he 
held all work in holy horror, and spent all his time in 
sleeping and idling about his hovel. Hence stealing was 
the only means of support for himself, his wife and two 
sons— terrible youths, who, somehow, had escaped the 
conscription. 

They consumed nothing that was not stolen. Wlieat, 
wine, fuel, fruits — all were the rightful property of 
others. Hunting and fishing at all seasons, and with 
forbidden appliances, furnished them with ready money. 

Every one in the neighborhood knew this; and yet 
when Father Chupin was pursued and captured, as he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


♦V 


was occasionally, no witness could be found to testify 
against him. 

“He is a hard case,” men said, “and if he had a grudge 
against any one, he would be quite capable of lying in 
ambush and shooting him as he would a squirrel.” 

Meanwhile the rider had drawn rein at the inn of the 
Boeuf Couronne. He alighted from his horse, and, cross- 
ing the square, approached the church. 

He was a large man, about fifty years of age, as gnarled 
and sinewy as the stem of an old grape-vine. At the 
first glance one would not have taken him for a scoun- 
drel. His manner was humble and even gentle ; but the 
restlessness of his eye and the expression of his thin lips 
betrayed diabolical cunning and the coolest calculation. 

At any other time this despised and dreaded individual 
would have been avoided ; but curiosity and anxiety led 
the crowd toward him. • 

“Ah, well. Father Chupin!” they cried, as soon as he 
was within the sound of their voices, “whence do you 
come in such haste?” 

^ “From the city.” 

To the inhabitants of Sairmeuse and its environs, “tlie 
city” meant the country-town of the arrondissement 
Montaignac, a charming sub-prefecture of eight thou- 
sand souls, about four leagues distant. 

“And was it at Montaignac that you bought the horse 
you were riding just now?” 

“I did not buy it ; it was loaned to me.” 

Tiiis was such a strange assertion that his listeners 
could not repress a smile. He did not seem to notice it, 
however. 

“It was loaned to me,” he continued, “in order that I 
might bring some great news here the quicker.” 


8 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Fear assumed possession of the peasantry. 

“Is the enemy in the city?” anxiously inquired some 
of the more timid. 

“Yes, but not the enemy you refer to. This is the for- 
mer lord of the manor, the Duke de Sairmeuse.” 

“Ah ! they said he was dead.” 

“Tiiey were mistaken.” 

“Have you seen him?” 

“No, 1 have not seen him, but some one else has seen 
him for me, and has spoken to him. And this some one 
is M. Laugeron, the proprietor of the Hotel de France at 
Montaignac. I was passing the house this morning, 
when he called me. "Here, old man," he said. "Do you 
wish to do me a favor?’ Naturally I replied: "Yes.’ 
Whereupon he placed a coin in my hands and said : 
‘Well I go and tell them to saddle a horse for you, then 
gallop to Sairmeuse, and tell my friend Lacheneur that 
the Duke de Sairmeuse arrived here last night in a post- 
chaise, with his son M. Martial, and two servants.’ ” 

Here, in the midst of these peasants, Tvho were listen- 
ing to him with pale cheeks and set teeth. Father Chupin 
preserved the subdued mien appropriate to a messenger 
of misfortune. 

But if one had observed him carefully, one would have 
detected an ironical smile upon his lips, and a gleam of 
malicious joy in his eyes. 

He was, in fact, inwardly jubilant. At that moment 
he had his revenge for all the slights and all the scorn 
he had been forced to endure. And what a revenge ! 

And if his words seemed to fall slowly and reluctantly 
from his lips, it was only because he was trying to pro- 
long the sufferings of his auditors as much as possible. 

But a robust young fellow, with an intelligent face 

% 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


9 


who, perhaps, read Father Chupin’s secret heart, 
bruskly interrupted him. 

“What does the presence of the Duke de Sairmeuse at 
Montaignac matter to us?” he exclaimed. “Let him 
remain at the Hotel de France as long as he chooses ; 
we shall not go in search of him I” 

“No I we shall not go in search of him,” echoed the 
other peasants, approvingly. 

The old rogue'shook his head with affect j*.d commisera- 
tion. 

“Monsieur le Due will not put you to that trouble,” he 
replied; “he will be here in less than two hours.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I know it through M. Laugeron, who, when I mounted 
his horse, said to me : ‘Above all, old man, explain to my 
friend Lacheneur that the duke has ordered horses to 
be in readiness to convey him to Sairmeuse at eleven 
o’clock.* ” 

With a common movement all the peasants who had 
watches consulted them. 

“And what does he want here?” demanded the same 
young farmer. 

“Pardon ! — he did not tell me,” replied Father Chupin, 
“but one need not be very cunning to guess. He comes 
to revisit his former estates, and to take them from those 
who have purchased them, if possible. From you, Rousse- 
let, he will claim the meadows upon the Oiselle, which 
always yield two crops; from you. Father Gauchais, the 
ground upon which the Croix-Brulee stands ; from you, 
Chanlouineau, the vineyards on the Borderie — ” 

Chanlouineau was the impetuous young man who had 
interrupted Father Chupin twice already. \ 

“Claim the Borderie !”' he exclaimed, with even greater 


10 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


violence; “let him try — and we will see. It was waste 
land when my father bought it — covered with briars; 
even a goat could not have found pasture there. W 3 
have cleared it of stones, we have scratched up the soil 
with our very nails, we have watered it with our sweat, 
and now they would try to take it from us ! Ah ! they 
shall have my last drop of blood first.” 

“I do not say but — ” 

“But whal;? Is it any fault of ours that the nobles fled 
to foreign lands? We have not stolen their lands, have 
we? The government offered them for sale; we bought 
them, and paid for them: they are lawfully ours.” 

“That is true; but M. de Sairmeuse is the great friend 
of the king.” 

The young soldier, whose voice had aroused the most 
noble sentiments only a moment before, was forgotten. 

Invaded France, the threatening enemy, were alike 
forgotten. The all-powerful insti ict of avarice was 
suddenly aroused. 

“In my opinion,” resumed Chanlouineau, “we should 
do well to consult the Baron d’Escoiwal.” 

“Yes, yesl” exclaimed the peasants; “let us go at 
once !” 

They were starting, when a villager who sometimes 
read the papers, checked them by saying : 

“Take care what you do. Do you uot know that since 
the return of the Bourbons M. d’Escorval is of no account 
whatever? Fouch6 has him upon the proscription list, 
and he is under the surveillance of the police.” 

This objection dampened the enthusiasm. 

“That is true,” murmured some of the older men, “a 
visit to M. d’Escorval would, perhaps, do us more harm 
than good. And, besides, what advice could he giv« us?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


11 


Chanlouineau had forgotten all prudence. 

“What of that!” he exclaimed. “If M. d’Escorval 
has no counsel to give us about this matter, he can, per- 
haps, teach us how to resist and to defend ourselves.” 

For some moments Father Chupin had been studying, 
with an impassive countenance, the storm of anger he 
had aroused. In his secret heart he experienced the 
satisfaction of the incendiary at the sight of the flames 
he has kindled. 

Perhaps he already had a presentiment of the infa- 
mous part he would play a few months later. 

Satisfied with his experiment, he assumed, for the 
time, the role of moderator. 

“Wait a little. Do not cry before you are hurt,” he 
exclaimed, in an ironical tone. “Who told you that the 
Duke de Sairrneuse would trouble you? How much of 
his former domain do you all own between you? Almost 
nothing. A few fields and meadows, and a hill on the 
Borderie. All these together did not in former times 
yield him an income of five thousand francs a year.” 

“Yes, that is true,” replied Chanlouineau; “and if the 
revenue you mentioned is quadrupled, it is only because 
the land is now in the hands of forty proprietors who 
cultivate it themselves.” 

“Another reason why the duke will not say a word; 
he will not wish to set the whole district in commotion. 
In my opinion he will dispossess only one of the owners 
of his former estates, and that is our worthy ex-mayor— 
M. Lacheneur, in short.” 

Ah ! he knew only too well the egotism of his compa- 
triots. He knew with what complacency and eagerness 
they would accept an expiatory victim whose sacrifices 
should be their salvation. 


12 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“That is a fact/’ remarked an old man; “M. Lache- 
neur owns nearly all the Sairmeuse property.” 

“Say all, while you are about it,” rejoined Father 
Chupin. “Where does M. Lacheneur live I In that 
beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, whose gable we can 
see there through the trees. He hunts in the forests 
which once belonged to the Dukes de Sairmeuse; he 
fishes m their lakes; he drives the horses which once 
belonged to them, in the cariiages upon which one could 
now see their coat of arms, if it had not been painted out. 

“Twenty years ago Lacheneur was a poor devil like my- 
self ; now, he is a grand gentleman with fifty thousand 
livres a year. He wears the finest broadcloth, and top 
boots like the Baron d’Escorval. He no longer works ; 
he makes others work ; and when he passes every one 
must bow to the earth. If you kill so much as a spar- 
row upon his lands, as he says, he will cast you into 
prison. Ah ! he has been fortunate. The emperor made 
him mayor. The Bourbons deprived him of his office ; 
but what does that matter to him? He is still the real 
master here, as the Sairmeuse were in other days. His 
son is pursuing his studies in Paris, intending to become 
a notary. As for his daughter, Mdlle. Marie- Anne — ” 

“Not a word against her!” exclaimed Chanlouineau ; 
“if she were mistress, there would not be a poor man in 
the country ; and yet, how some of her pensioners abuse 
her bounty. Ask your wife if this is not so. Father 
Chupin.” 

Undoubtedly the impetuous young man spoke at the 
peril of his life. 

But the wicked old Chupin swallowed this affront 
which he would never forget, and humbly continued : 

“I do not say that Mdlle. Marie- Anne is not generous ; 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


13 


but after all her charitable works she has plenty of money 
left for her fine dresses and her fal-lals. I think that M. 
Lacheneur ought to be very well content, even after he 
has restored to its former owner one-half or even three- 
quarters of the property he has acquired, no one can tell 
how. He would have enough left then to grind the poor 
under foot.” 

After his appeal to selfishness. Father Chupin appealed 
to envy. There could be no doubt of his success. 

But he had not time to pursue his advantage. The 
services were over, and the worshipers were leaving the 
church. 

Soon there appeared upon the porch the' man in ques- 
tion, with a young girl of dazzling beauty leaning upon 
his arm. 

Father Chupin walked straight toward him, and bruskly 
delivered his message. 

M. Lacheneur staggered beneath the blow. He turnetl 
first so red, then so frightfully pale, that those around 
him thought he was about to fall. 

But he quickly recovered his self-possession, and with- 
out a word to the messenger, he walked rapidly away, 
leading his daughter. 

Some minutes later an old post-chaise, drawn by four 
horses, dashed through the village at a gallop, and paused 
before the house of the village cure. 

Then one might have witnessed a singular spectacle. 

Father Chupin had gathered his wife and his children 
together, and the four surrounded the carriage, shouting 
with all the power of their lungs : 

“Long live the Duke de Sairmeuse !” 


14 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


■ CHAPTER II. 

A GENTLY ascending road, more than two miles in 
length, shaded by a quadruple row of venerable elms, 
led from the village to the Chateau de Sairmeuse. 

Nothing could be more beautiful than this avenue, a 
fit approach to a palace ; and the stranger who beheld 
it could understand the naively vain proverb of the 
country : “He does not know the real beauty of France, 
who has never seen Sairmeuse nor the Oiselle.” 

The Oiselle is the little river which one crosses by means 
of a wooden' bridge on leaving the village, and whose 
clear and rapid waters give a delicious freshness to the 
valley. 

At every step, as one ascends, the view changes. It is 
as if an enchanting panorama were being slowly unrolled 
before one. 

On the right you can see the saw-mills of Fereol. On 
the left, like an ocean of verdure, the forest of Dolomien 
trembles in the breeze. Those imposing ruins on the 
other side of the river are all that remain of the feudal 
manor of the house of Breulh. That red-brick mansion 
with granite trimmings, half concealed by a bend in the 
river, belongs to the Baron d’Escorval. 

And, if the day is clear, one can easily distinguish the 
spires of Montaignac in the distance. 

This was the path traversed by M. Lacheneur after 
Chupin had delivered his message. 

But what did he care for the beauties of the landscape ! 

Upon the church porch he had received his death 
wound ; and now, with’ a tottering and dragging step, 
be dragged himself along like one of those poor soldiers, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


15 


mortally wounded upon the field of battle, who go back, 
seeking a ditch or quiet spot where they can lie down 
and die. 

He seemed to have lost all thought of his surroundings 
— all consciousness of previous events. He pursued his 
way, lost in his reflections, guided only by force of habit. 

Two or three times his daughter, Marie- Anne, who was 
walking by his side, addressed him ; but an “Ah I let me 
alone,” uttered in a harsh tone, was the only response 
she could draw from him. 

Evidently he had received a terrible blow; and un- 
doubtedly, as often happens under such circumstances, 
the unfortunate man was reviewing all the different 
phases of his life. 

At twenty Lacheneur was only a poor plowboy in the 
service of the Sairmeuse family. 

His ambition was modest then. When stretched be- 
neath a tree at the hour of noonday rest, his dreams 
were as simple as those of an infant. 

“If I could but amass a hundred pistoles,” he thought, 
“I would ask Father Barrois for the hand of his daughter 
Marthe ; and he would not refuse me.” 

A hundred pistoles! A thousand francs! — an enor- 
mous sum for him who, in two years of toil and priva- 
tion, had only laid by eleven louis, which he had placed 
carefully in a tiny box and hidden in the depths of his 
straw mattress. 

Still, he did not despair. He had read in Marthe 's eyes 
that she would wait. 

And Mdlle. Armande de Sairmeuse, a rich old maid, 
was his godmother ; and he thought if he attacked her 
adroitly, that he might, perhaps, interest her in his love- 
affair. 


16 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Then the terrible storm of the revolution burst over 
France. 

With the fall of the first thunderbolts, the Duke de 
Sairmeuse left France with the Count d ’Artois. They 
took refuge in foreign lands as a passer-by seeks shelter 
in a doorway from a summer shower, saying to him- 
self : “This will not last long.” 

This storm did last, however ; and the following year 
Mdlle. Armande, who had remained at Sairmeuse, died. 

The chateau was then closed, the president of the dis- 
trict took possession of the keys in the name of the gov- 
ernment, and the servants were scattered. 

Lacheneur took up his residence in Montaignac. 

Young, daring and personally attractive, blessed with 
an energetic face, and an intelligence far above his sta- 
tion, it was not long before he became well known in the 
political clubs. 

For three months Lacheneur was the tyrant of Mon- 
taignac. 

But this metier of public speaker is by no means lucra- 
tive, so the surprise throughout the district was immense 
when it was ascertained that the former plowboy had 
purchased the chateau, and almost ail the land belong- 
ing to his old master. 

It is true that the nation had sold this princely domain 
for scarcely a twentieth part of its real value. The ap- 
praisement was sixty-nine thousand francs. It was giv- 
ing the property away. 

And yet, it was necessary to have this amount, and 
Lacheneur possessed it, since he had poured it, in a flood 
of beautiful louis d’or, into the hands of the receiver of 
the district. 

From that moment his popularity waned. The patriots 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


17 


who had applauded the plowboy cursed the capitalist. 
He discreetly left them to recover from their rage as best 
they could, and returned to Sairmeuse. There every one 
bowed low before Citoyen Lacheneur. 

Unlike most people, he did not forget his past hopes at 
the moment when they might be realized. 

He married Marthe Barrois, and leaving the country 
to work out its own salvation without assistance, he gave 
his time and attention to agriculture. 

Any close observer, in those days, would have felt cer- 
tain that the man was bewildered by the sudden change 
in his situation. 

His manner was so troubled and anxious that one, to 
see him, would have supposed him a servant in constant 
fear of being detected in some indiscretion. 

He did not open the chateau, but installed himself and 
his young wife in the cottage formerly occupied by the 
head gamekeeper, near the entrance of the park. 

But, little by little, with the habit of possession, came 
assurance. 

Tlie Consulate had succeeded the Directory, the Em- 
pire succeeded the Consulate, Citoyen Lacheneur became 
M. Lacheneur. 

Appointed mayor two years later, he left the cottage 
and tock possession of the chateau. 

The former plowboy slumbered in the bed of the Dukes 
de Sairmeuse ; he ate from* the massive plate, graven 
with their coat of arms ; he received his visitors in the 
magnificent salon in which the Dukes de Sairmeuse had 
received their friends in years gone by. 

To those who had known him in former days, M. Lache- 
neur had become unrecognizable. He had adapted him- 
self to his lofty station. Blushing at his own ignorance, 


18 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


he had found the courage — wonderful in one of his age — 
to acquire the education which he lacked. 

TJien, all his undertakings were successful to such a 
degree that his good fortune had become proverbial. 
That he took any part in an enterprise sufficed to make 
it turn out well. 

His wife had given him two lovely children, a son and 
a daughter. 

His property, managed with a shrewdness and sagacity 
which the former owners had not possessed, yielded him 
an income of at least sixty thousand francs. 

How many, under similar circumstances, would have 
lost their heads I But he, M. Lacheneur, had been wise 
enough to retain his sang-froid. 

In spite of the princely luxury that surrounded him, 
his own habits were simple and frugal. He had never 
had an attendant for his own person. His large income 
he consecrated almost entirely to the improvement of 
his estate or to the purchase of more land. And j^et, he 
was not avaricious. In all that concerned his wife or 
children, he did not count the cost. His son, Jean, had 
been educated in Paris ; he wished him to be fitted for 
any position. Unwilling to consent to a separation from 
his daughter, he had procured a governess to take charge 
of her education. 

Sometimes his friends accused him of an inordinate 
ambition for his children ; but he always shook his head 
sadly, as he replied : 

“If I can only insure them a modest and comfortable 
future I But what folly it is to count upon the future. 
Thirty years ago, who could have foreseen that the Sair- 
meuse family would be deprived of their estates?” 

With such opinions he should have been a good mas- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


19 


ter ; he was, but no one thought the better of him on 
that account. His former comrades could not forgive 
him for his sudden elevation. 

They seldom spoke of him without wishing his ruin in 
ambiguous words. 

Alas! the evil days came. Toward the close of the 
year 1812 he lost his wife ; the disasters of the year 1813 
swept away a large portion of his personal fortune, which 
had been invested in a manufacturing enterprise. Com- 
promised by the first Restoration, he was obliged to con- 
ceal himself for a time ; and, to cap the climax, the 
conduct of his son, who was still in Paris, caused him 
serious disquietude. 

Only the evening before, he had thought himself the 
most unfortunate of men. 

But here was another misfortune menacing him; a 
misfortune so terrible that all the othei*s were forgotten. 

From the day on which he had purchased Sairmeuse, 
to this fatal Sunday in August, 1815, was an interval of 
twenty years. 

Twenty years ! And it seemed to him only yesterday 
that, blushing and trembling, he had laid those piles of 
louis d"or upon the desk of the receiver of the district. 

Had he dreamed it? 

He had not dreamed it. His entire life, with its strug- 
gles and its miseries, its hopes and its fears, its unex- 
pected joys and its blighted hopes, all passed before him. 

Lost in these memories, he had quite forgotten the pres- 
ent situation, when a commonplace incident, more power- 
ful than the voice of his daughter, brought him back to 
the terrible reality. 

The gate leading to the Chateau de Sairmeuse, to Ms 
chateau, was found to be locked. 


20 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He shook it with a sort of rage ; and .being unable to 
break the fastening, he found some relief in breaking the 
bell. On hearing the noise, the gardener came running 
to the scene of action. 

“Why is this gate closed?” demanded M. Lacheneur, 
with unwonted violence of manner. “By what right do 
you barricade my house when I, the master, am with- 
out?” 

The gardener tried to make some excuse. 

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted M. Lacheneur. “I 
dismiss you; you are no longer in my service.” 

He passed on, leaving the gardener petrified with as- 
tonishment, crossed the courtyard — a courtyard worthy 
of the mansion, bordered with velvet turf, with flowers 
and with dense shrubbery. 

In the vestibule, inlaid with "marble, three of his ten- 
ants ]sat awaiting him, for it was on Sunday that he al- 
ways received the workmen who desired to confer with 
him. 

They rose at his approach, and removed their hats def- 
erentially. But he did not give them time to utter a word. 

“Who permitted you to enter here?” he said, savagely, 
“and what do you desire? They sent you to play the spy 
on me, did they? Leave, I tell you 1” 

The three farmers were even more bewildered and dis- 
mayed than the gardener had been, and their remarks 
must have been interesting. 

But M. Lacheneur could not hear them. He had 
opened the door of the grand salon and dashed in, fol- 
lowed by his frightened daughter. 

Never had Marie- Anne seen her father in such a mood ; 
and she trembled, her heart tom by the most frightful 
presentiments. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


21 


She had heard it said that oftentimes, under the in- 
fluence of some dire calamity, unfortunate men have 
suddenly lost their reason entirely, and she was wonder- 
ing if her father had become insane. 

It would seem, indeed, that such was the case. His 
eyes flashed, convulsive shudders shook his whole body, 
a white foam gathered on his lips. 

He made the circuit of the room as a wild beast makes 
the circuit of his cage, uttering harsh imprecations and 
making frenzied gestures. 

His actions were strange, incomprehensible. Some- 
times he seemed to be trying the thickness of the carpet 
with the toe of his boot ; sometimes he threw himself 
upon a sofa or a chair, as if to test its softness. 

Occasionally he paused abruptly before some one of 
the valuable pictures that covered the walls, or before 
a bronze. One might have supposed that he was taking 
an inventory, and appraising all the magnificent and 
costly articles which decorated this apartment, the most 
sumptuous in the chateau. 

“And I must renounce all this !“ he exclaimed, at last. 

These words explained everything. 

“No, never I” he resumed, in a transport of rage — 
“never 1 never ! I cannot ! I will not I” 

Now Marie-Anne understood it all. But what was 
passing in her father’s mind? She wished to know ; and 
leaving the low chair in which she had been seated, she 
went to her father’s side. 

“Are you ill, father? ” she asked, in her sweet voice; 
“what is the matter? What do you fear? Why do you 
not confide in me— am I not your daughter? Do you no 
longer love me?’’ 

At the sound of this dear voice, M. Lacheneur trembled 


22 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


like a sleeper suddenly aroused from the terrors of a 
nightmare, and he cast an indescribable glance upon his 
daughter. 

‘'Did you not hear what Chupin said to me?” he re- 
plied, slowly. “The Duke de Sairmeuse is at Montaig- 
nac — he will soon be here; and we are dwelling in the 
chateau of his fathers, and his domain has become ours !” 

This vexed question regarding the national lands, which 
agitated France for thirty years, Marie understood, for 
she had heard it discussed a thousand times. 

“Ah, well! dear father,” said she, “what does that 
matter, even if we do hold the property? You have 
bought it and paid for it, have you not? So it is right- 
fully and lawfully ours.” 

M. Lacheneur hesitated a moment before replying. 

But his secret suffocated him. He was in one of those 
crises in which a man, however strong he may be, totters 
and seeks some support, however fragile. ^ 

“You would be right, my daughter,” he murmured, 
with drooping head, “if the money that I gave in ex- 
change for Sairmeuse had really belonged to me.” 

At this strange avowal the young girl turned pale and 
recoiled a step. 

“What!” she faltered, “this gold was not yours, my 
father? To whom did it belong? From whence did it 
come?” 

The unhappy man had gone too far to retract. 

“I will tell you all, my daughter,” he replied, “and you 
shall judge. You shall decide. When the Sairmeuse 
family fled from France, I had only my hands to depend 
upon, and as it was almost impossible to obtain work, I 
wondered if starvation were not near at hand. 

“Such was my condition when some one came after 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


2 ? 

me one evening to tell me that Mdlle. Armande de Sair* 
meuse, my godmother, was dying, and wished to speak 
with me. I ran to the chateau. 

“The messenger had told the truth. Mdlle. Armande 
was sick unto death. I felt this on seeing her upon her 
bed, whiter than wax. 

“Ah I if I were to live a hundred years never should I 
forget her face as it looked at that moment. It was ex- 
pressive of a strength of will and an energy that would 
hold death at bay until the task upon which she had de- 
termined was performed. 

“When I entered the room I saw a look of relief ap- 
pear upon her couatenance. 

“ ‘How long you were in coming I’ she murmured, 
faintly. 

“I was about to make some excuse, when she motioned 
me to pause, and ordered the women who surrounded 
her to leave the room. 

“As soon as we were alone : 

“ ‘You are an honest boy," said she, ‘and I am about to 
^ give you a proof of my confidence. People believe me 
to be poor, but they are mistaken. While my relatives 
were gayly ruining themselves, I was saving the five 
hundred louis which the duke, my brother, gave me 
each year." 

“She motioned me to come nearer, and to kneel beside 
Iier bed. 

“I obeyed, and Mdlle. Armande leaned toward me, al- 
i^most glued her lips to my ear, and added : 

“ ‘I possess eighty thousand francs." 

“I felt a sudden giddiness,’ but my godmother did not 
notice it. 

“ ‘This amount," she continued, ‘is not a quarter part 


24 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


of the former income from our family estates. But now, 
who knows but it will, one day, be the only resource of 
the Sairmeuse? I am going to place it in your charge, 
Lacheneur. I conhde it to your honor and to your devo- 
tion. Tlie estates belonging to the emigrants are to be 
sold, I hear. If such an act of injustice is committed, 
you will probably be able to purchase our property for 
seventy thousand francs. If the property is sold by the 
government, purchase it ; if the lands belonging to the 
emigrants are not sold, take that amount to the duke, 
my brother, who is with the Count d'Artois. Tlie sur- 
plus, that is to say, the ten thousand francs remaining, 
I give to you— they are yours.’ 

“She seemed to recover her strength. She raised her- 
self in bed, and, holding the crucifix attached to her 
rosary to my lips, she said: 

“ ‘Swear by the image of our Saviour that you will 
faithfully execute the last will of your dying godmother !’ 

“I took the required oath, and an expression of satis- 
faction overspread her features. 

“‘That is well,’ she said; ‘I shall die content. You 
will have a protector on higli. But tliis is not all. In 
times like these in which we live, this gold will not be 
safe in your hands unless those about you are ignorant 
that you possess it. I have been endeavoring to discover 
some way by which you could remove it from my room, 
and from the chateau, without the knowledge of any 
one ; and I have found a way. The gold is here in this 
cupboard at the head of my bed, in a stout oaken chest. 
You must find strength to move the chest — you must. 
You can fasten a sheet around it, and let it down gently 
from the window into the garden. You will then leave 
ihe house as you entered it, and so soon as you are out- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


25 


side you must take the chest and carry it to your home. 
The night is very dark, and no one will see you, if you 
are careful. But make haste; my strength is nearly 
gone. ’ 

“The chest was heavy, but I was very strong. 

“In less than ten minutes the task of removing the 
chest from the chateau was accomplished, without a 
single sound that would betray us. As I closed the 
window, I said : 

“ Tt is done, godmother.’ 

“‘God be praised!’ she whispered, ‘ Sairmeuse is 
saved !’ 

“I heard a deep sigh. I turned; she was dead.” 

This scene that M. Lacheneur was relating rose vividly 
before him. 

To feign, to disguise the truth, or to conceal any por- 
tion of it was an impossibility. 

He forgot himself and his daughter ; he thought only 
of the dead woman, of Mdlle. Armande de Sairmeuse. 

And he shuddered on pronouncing the words: “She 
was dead.” It seemed to him that she was about to 
speak, and to insist upon the fulfillment of his pledge. 

After a moment’s silence he resumed, in a hollow 
voice : 

“I called for aid— it came. Mdlle. Armande was 
adored by every one ; there was great lamentation, and 
a half hour of indescribable confusion followed her death. 
I was able to withdraw, unnoticed, to run into the gar- 
den, and to carry away the oaken che^. An hour later. 
It was concealed in the miserable hovel in which I dwelt. 
The following year I purchased Sairmeuse.” 

He had confessed all ; and he paused, trembling, try- 
ing to read his sentence in the eyes of his daughter. 


26 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


*‘And can you hesitate?” she demanded. 

“Ah ! you do not know—” 

“I know that Sairmeuse must be given up.” 

This was the decree of his own conscience, that faint 
voice which speaks only in a whisper, but which all the 
tumult on earth cannot overpower. 

“No one saw me take away the chest,” he faltered. 
“If any one suspected it, there is not a single proof 
against me. But no one does suspect it.” 

Marie-Anne rose, her eyes flashing with generous in- 
dignation. 

“My father 1” she exclaimed, “oh, my father I” 

Then, in a calmer tone, she added : 

“If others know nothing of this, can you forget it?” 

M. Lacheneur appeared almost ready to succumb to 
the torture of the terrible conflict raging in his soul. 

“Return I” he exclaimed. “What shall I return? 
That which I have received? So be it. I consent. I 
will give the duke the eighty thousand francs ; to this 
amount I will add the interest on this sum since I have 
had it, and — we shall be free of all obligation.” 

The girl sadly shook her head. 

“Why do you resort to subterfuges which are so un- 
worthy of you?” she asked, gently. “You know per- 
fectly well that it was Sairmeuse which Mdlle. Armande 
intended to intrust to the servant of her house. And it 
is Sairmeuse which must be returned.” 

The word “servant” was revolting to a man, 'who, at 
least, while the Empire endured, had been a power in 
the land. 

“Ah I you are cruel, my daughter,” he said, with in- 
tense bitterness, “as cruel as a child who has never suf- 
fered — as cruel as one who, having never himself been 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


27 


tempted, is without mercy for those who have yielded 
to temptation. 

“It is one of those acts which God alone can judge, 
since God alone can read the depths of one’s secret soul. 

‘•‘I am only a depositary, you tell me. It was, indeed, 
in this light that I formerly regarded myself. 

“If your poor sainted mother was still alive she would 
tell you the anxiety and anguish I felt on being made 
the master of riches which were not mine. I trembled 
lest I should yield to their seductions ; I was afraid of 
myself. I felt as a gambler might feel who had the win- 
nings of others confided to his care; as a drunkard 
might feel who had been placed in charge of a quantity 
of the most delicious wines. 

“Your mother would tell you that I moved heaven and 
earth to find the Duke de Sairmeuse. But he had left 
the Count d’Artois, and no one knew where he had gone 
dr what had become of him. Ten years passed before I 
could make up my mind to inhabit the chateau — yes, ten 
years — during which I had the furniture dusted each 
morning as if the master was to return that evening. 

“At last I ventured. I had heard M. d’Escorval de- 
clare that the duke had been, killed in battle. I took up 
my abode here. And from day to day, in proportion as 
the domain of Sairmeuse became more beautiful and ex- 
tensive beneath my care, I felt myself more and more its 
rightful owner.” 

But this despairing pleading in behalf of a bad cause 
produced no impression upon Marie- Anne’s loyal heart. 

“Restitution must be made,” she repeated. 

M. Lacheneur wrung his hands. 

‘ ‘Implacable ! ” he exclaimed ; ‘ ‘she is implacable. Un- 
fortunate girl ! does she not understand that it is for her 


28 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


sake I wish to remain where I am. I am old ; I aii>. 
familiar with toil and poverty ; idleness has nr i /©moved 
the callosities from my hands. What do I require to 
keep me alive until the day comes for m i vo tike f 
place in the graveyard? A crust of bread and an onion 
in the morning, a porringer of soup in tVie ovei.ing, md 
for the night a bundle of straw. I v ould easily earn 
that. But you, unhappy child ! and ycur brother, what 
will become of you?” 

“We must not discuss nor haggle with duty, my father. 
I think, however, that you are needlessly alarmed. I 
believe the duke is too noble-hearted ever to allow you 
to suffer want after the immense service you have ren- 
dered him.” 

The old servitor of the house of Sairmeuse laughed a 
loud, bitter laugh. 

“You believe that !” said he. “Then you do not know 
the nobles who have been our masters for ages. ‘Ah, 
you are a worthy fellow I’ — very coldly said— will be the 
only recompense I shall receive ; and you will see us — 
me, at my plow— you, out at service. And if I venture 
to speak of the ten thousand francs that were given me, 
I shall be treated as an impostor, as an impudent fool. 
By the holy name of God, this shall not be 1” 

“Oh, my father I” 

“No ! this shall not be. And I realize — as you cannot 
realize — the disgrace of such a fall. You think you are 
beloved in Sail meuse ? — you are mistaken. W e have been 
too fortunate not to be the victims of hatred and jeal- 
ousy. If I fall to-morrow, you will see all who kissed 
your hands to-day fall upon you to tear you to pieces 1” 

His eyes glittered ; he believed he had found a victori- 
ous argument. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


29 


“And then you, yourself, will realize the horror of the 
disgrace. It will cost you the deadly anguish of a sepa- 
ration from him whom your heart has chosen.” 

He had spoken truly, for Marie- Anne’s beautiful eyes 
filled with tears. 

“If what you say proves true, father,” she murmured, 
in an altered voice, “I may, perhaps, die of sorrow; but 
I cannot fail to realize that my confidence and my love 
have been misplaced.” 

“And you still insist upon my returning Sairmeuse to 
its former owner?” 

“Honor speaks, my father.” 

M. Lacheneur made the arm-chair in which he was 
seated tremble by a violent blow of his fist. 

“And if 1 am just as obstinate,” he exclaimed — “if I 
keep the property — what will you do?” 

“I shall say to myself, father, that honest poverty is 
better than stolen wealth. I shall leave this chateau, 
which belongs to the Duke de Sairmeuse, and I shall seek 
a situation as a servant in the neighborhood.” 

M. Lacheneur sank back in his arm-chair sobbing. He 
knew his .daughter’s nature well enough to be assured 
that what she said, that would she do. 

But he was conquered: his daughter had won the 
battle. He had decided to make the heroic sacrifice. 

“I will relinquish Sairmeuse,” he faltered, “come what 
may—” 

He paused suddenly ; a visitor was entering the room. 

It was a young man about twenty years of age, of dis 
tinguished appearance, but with a rather melancholy and 
gentle manner. 

His eyes when he entered the apartment encountered 
those of Marie- Anne ; he blushed slightly, and the girl 


30 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


half turned away, crimsoning to the roots of her hair. 
“Monsieur,” said the young man, “my father sends 
me to inform you that the Duke de Sairmeuse and his 
son have just arrived. They have asked the hospitality 
of our cur4.” 

M. Lacheneur rose, unable to conceal his frightful 
agitation. 

“You will thank the Baron d'Escorval for his atten- 
tion, my dear Maurice,” he responded. “I shall have 
the honor of seeing him to-day, after a very momentous 
step which we are about to take, my daughter and I.” 

Young Escorval had seen, at the first glance, that his 
presence was inopportune, so he remained only a few 
moments. 

But, as he was taking leave, Marie- Anne found time to 
say in a low voice ; 

“I think I know your heart, Maurice; this evening I 
shall know it, certainly.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Few of the inhabitants of Sairmeuse knew, except by 
name, the terrible duke whose arrival had thrown the 
whole village into commotion. 

Some of the oldest residents had a faint recollection of 
having seen him long ago, before '89 indeed, when he 
came to visit his aunt, Mdlle. Armande. 

His duties, then, had seldom permitted him to leave 
the court. 

If he had given no sign of life during the empire, it 
was because he had not been compelled to submit to the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


31 


humiliation and sufferings which so many of the emi- 
grants were obliged to endure in their exile. 

On the contrary, he had received in exchange for the 
wealth of which he had been deprived by the revolution, 
a princely fortune. 

Taking refuge in London, after the defeat of the army 
of Conde, he had been so fortunate as to please the only 
daughter of Lord Holland, one of the richest peers in 
England, and he had married her. 

She possessed a fortune of two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand pounds Stirling, more than six million francs. 

Still the marriage was not a happy one. The chosen 
companion of the dissipated and licentious Count d ’Ar- 
tois was not likely to prove a very good husband. 

The young duchess was contemplating a separation 
when she died, in giving birth to a boy, who was bap- 
tized under the names of Anne-Marie-Martial. 

The loss of his wife did not render the Duke de Sair- 
meuse inconsolable. 

He was free, and richer than he had ever been. 

As soon as les convenances permitted, he confided his 
son to the care of a relative of his wife, and began his 
roving life again. 

Rumor had told the truth. He had fought, and that 
furiously, against France in the Austrian and then in the 
Russian ranks. 

And he took no pains to conceal the fact ; convinced 
that he had only performed his duty. He considered 
that he had honestly and loyally gained the rank of gen- 
eral which the Emperor of All the Russias had bestowed 
upon him. 

He had not returned to France during the first Res- 
toration; but his absence had been involuntary. His 


32 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


father-in-law, Lord Holland, had just died, and the 
duke was detained in London by business connected 
with his son’s immense inheritance. 

Then followed the “Hundred Days. ’’ They exasperated 
him. 

But “the good cause,” as he styled it, having tri- 
umphed anew, he hastened to France. 

Alas ! Lacheneur judged the character of his former 
master correctly, when he resisted the entreaties of his 
daughter. 

This man, who had been compelled to conceal himself 
during the first Restoration, knew only too well that the 
returned emigres had learned nothing, and forgotten 
nothing. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse was no exception to the rule. 

He thought, and nothing could be more sadly absurd, 
that a mere act of authority would suffice to suppress for- 
ever all the events of the Revolution and of the empire. 

When he said: “Ido not admit that!” he firmly be- 
lieved that there was nothing more to be said ; that con- 
troversy was ended ; and that what has been, as if it had 
never been. 

If some, who had seen Louis XVIII. at the helm in 
1814, assured the duke that France had changed in many 
respects since 1789, he responded, with a shrug of the 
shoulders : 

“Nonsense ! As soon as*Ave assert ourselves, all these 
rascals whose rebellion alarms you will quietly slink out 
of sight.” ^ ^ 

Suc-h was really his opinion. 

On the way from Montaignac to Sairmeuse the duke, 
comfortably ensconced in his berlin, unfolded his theories 
for the benefit of his son. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


33 


*‘The king has been poorly advised,” he said, in con- 
clusion. “Besides, I am disposed to believe that he in- 
clines too much to Jacobinism. If he would listen to my 
advice, he would make use of the twelve hundred thou- 
sand soldiers which our friends have placed at his dis- 
posal to bring his subjects to a sense of their duty. 
Twelve hundred thousand bayonets have far more elo- 
quence than the articles of a charter.” 

He continued his remarks on this subject until the car- 
riage approached Sairmeuse. 

Though but little given to sentiment, he was really 
affected by the sight of the country in which he was 
born — where he had played as a child, and of which he 
had heard nothing since the death of his aunt. 

Everything was changed. Still, the outlines of the 
landscape remained the same ; the valley of the Giselle 
was as bright and laughing as in days gone by. 

'T recognize it!” he exclaimed, with a delight that 
made him forget politics. “I recognize it 1” 

Soon the changes became more striking. 

The carriage entered Sairmeuse, and rattled over the 
stones of the only street in the village. 

This street, in former years, had been unpaved, and 
had always been rendered impassable by wet weather. 

“Ah! ha!” murmured the duke, “this is^ an improve- 
ment!” * 

It was not long before he noticed others. The dilapi- 
dated, thatched hovels had given place to pretty and 
comfortable white cottages with green blinds, and a vine 
hanging gracefully over the door. 

As the carriage passed the public square in front of the 
church. Martial observed the groups of peasants who 
were still talking there. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


34 


“What do you think of all these peasants?” he in 
quired of his father. “Do they have the appearance of 
people who are preparing a triumphal reception for their 
old masters?” 

M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. He was not 
the man to renounce an illusion for such a trifle. 

“They did not know that I am in this post-chaise,” he 
replied. “When they know — ” 

Shouts of “ViveM. le Due de Sairmeuse 1” interrupted 
him. 

“Do your hear that, marquis?” he exclaimed. 

And pleased by these cries that proved him in the right, 
he leaned from th^carriage-window, waving his hand to 
the honest Chupin family, who were running after the 
vehicle with noisy shouts. 

The old rascal, his wife and his children, all possessed 
powerful voices ; and it was not strange that the duke 
believed the whole village was welcoming him. He was 
convinced of it ; and when the berlin stopped before the 
house of the cure, M. de Sairmeuse was persuaded that 
prestige of the nobility was .greater than ever. 

Upon the threshold of the parsonage, Bibiaine, the old 
housekeeper, was standing. She knew who these guests 
must be, for the cure’s servants always know what is 
going on. % 

“Monsieur has not yet returned from church,” she said, 
in response to the duke’s inquiry; “but if the gentlemen 
wish to wait, it will not be long before he comes, for the 
poor, dear man has not breakfasted yet.” 

“Let us go in,” the duke said to his son. 

And guided by the housekeeper, they entered a sort of 
drawing-room, where the table was spread. 

M. de Sairmeuse took an inventory of the apartment in 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


35 


a single glance. The habits of a house reveal those of its 
master. This was clean, poor and bare. The walls were 
whitewashed ; a dozen chairs composed the entire furni- 
ture ; upon the table, laid with monastic simplicity, were 
only tin dishes. 

This was either the abode of an ambitious man or a 
saint. 

“Will these gentlemen take any refreshments?” in- 
quired Bibiaine. 

“Upon my word,” replied Martial, “I must confess 
that the drive has whetted my appetite amazingly.” 

“Blessed Jesus I’ exclaimed the old housekeeper, in 
evident despair. “What am I to do? I, who have noth- 
ing ! That is to say — yes — I have an old hen left in the 
coop. Give me time to wring its neck, to pick it and 
clean it — ” * 

She paused to listen, and they heard a step in the 
passage. 

“Ah I” she exclaimed, “here is Monsieur le Cure now !” 

The son of a poor farmer in the environs of Montaignac, 
he owed his Latin and tonsure to the privations of his 
family. 

Tall, angular and solemn, he was as cold and impas- 
sive as the stones of his church. 

By what immense efforts of will, at the cost of what* 
torture, had he made himself what he was? One could 
form some idea of the terrible restraint to which he had 
subjected himself by looking at his eyes, which occa- 
sionally emitted the lightnings of an impassioned soul. 

Was he old or young? The most subtle’observer would 
have hesitated to say on seeing this pallid and emaciated 
face, cut in two by an immense nose — a real eagle’s beak 
— as thin as the edge of a razor. 


36 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He wore a white cassock, which had been patched and 
darned in numberless places, but which was a marvel of 
cleanliness, and which hung about his tall, attenuated 
body like the sails of a disabled vessel. 

He was known as the Abbe Midon.' 

At the sight of the two strangers seated in his drawing- 
room, he manifested some slight surprise. 

The carriage standing before the door had announced 
the presence of a visitor ; but he had. expected to find one 
of his parishioners. 

No one had warned him or the sacristan, and he was 
wondering with whom he had to deal, and what they 
desired of him. 

Mechanically, he turned to Bibiaine, but the old ser- 
vant had taken flight. 

The duke understood his host’s astonishment. 

“Upon my word, abbe I” he said, with the impertinent 
ease of a grand seigneur who makes himself at home 
everywhere, “we have taken your house by storm, and 
hold the position, as you see. I am the Duke de Sair- 
meuse, and this is my son, the'marquis.” 

The priest bowed, but he did not seem very greatly im- 
pressed by the exalted rank of his guests. 

“It is a great honor for me,” he replied, in a more than 
reserved tone, “to receive aVisit from the former master 
of this place.” 

He emphasized this word “former” in such a manner 
that it was impossible to doubt his sentiments and his 
opinions. 

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “you will not find here 
the comforts to which you are accustomed, and I fear — ” 

“Nonsense I” interrupted the duke. “An old soldier is 
. not fastidious, and what suffices for you, Monsieur Abbe, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


37 


will suffice for us. And rest assured that we shall amply 
repay you in one way or another for any inconvenience 
we may cause you.” 

The priest’s eye flashed. This want of tact, this dis- 
agreeable familiarity, this last insulting remark, kindled 
the anger of the man concealed beneath the priest. 

“Besides,” added Martial, gayly, “we have been vastly 
amused by Bibiaine’s anxieties ; we already know that 
there is a chicken in the coop — ” 

“That is to say, there was one, Monsieur le Marquis.” 

The old housekeeper, who suddenly reappeared, ex- 
plained her master’s response. She seemed overwhelmed 
with despair. 

“Blessed Virgin! monsieur, what shall I do?” she 
clamored. “The chicken has disappeared. Some one 
has certainly stolen it, for the coop is securely closed!” 

“Do not accuse your neighbor hastily,” interrupted 
the cure ; “no one has stolen it from us. Bertrande was 
here this morning to ask alms in the name of her sick 
daughter. I had no money, and I gave her this fowl 
that she might make a good bouillon for the sick 

girl.” 

This explanation changed Bibiaine’s consternation to 
fury. • 

Planting herself in the center of the room, one hand 
upon her hip and gesticulating wildly with the other, 
she exclaimed, pointing to her master : 

“That is just the sort of man he is; he^has less sense 
than a baby! Any miserable peasant who meets him 
can make him believe anything he wishes. Any great 
falsehood brings tears to his eyes, and then they can do 
what they like with him. In that way they take the 
very shoes off his feet and the bread from his mouth. 


38 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Bertrande’s daughter, messieurs, is no more ill than you 
or I !” 

“Enough ! ’ ’ said the priest, sternly, ‘ ‘enough ! ’ ’ Then, 
knowing by experience that his voice had not the power 
to check her flood of reproaches, he took her by the arm 
and led her out into the passage. • 

M. de Sairmeuse and his son exchanged a glance of 
consternation. 

Was this a comedy that had been prepared for their 
benefit? Evidently not, since their arrival had not been 
expected. 

But the priest, whose character had been so plainly re- 
vealed by this quarrel with his domestic, was not a man 
to their taste. 

At least, he was evidently not the man they had hoped 
to find — not the auxiliary whose assistance was indis- 
pensable to the success of their plans. 

Yet they did not exchange a word ; they listened. . 

They heard the sound as of a discussion in the passage. 

• The master spoke in low tones, but with an unmistakable 
accent of command ; the servant uttered an astonished 
exclamation. 

But the listeners could not distinguish a word. 

Soon the priest re-entered the apartment. 

“I hope, gentlemen,” he said, with a dignity that could 
not fail to check any attempt at raillery, “that you will 
excuse this ridiculous scene. The Cure of Sairmeuse, 
thank God I is not so poor as she says.” 

Neither the duke nor Martial made any response. 

Even their remarkable assurance was very sensibly 
diminished; and M. de Sairmeuse deemed it advisable 
to change the subject. 

This he did by relating the events which he had just 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


39 


witnessed in Paris, and by insisting that his majesty 
Louis XVIII. had been welcomed with enthusiasm and 
transports of affection. 

Fortunately, the old housekeeper interrupted this 
recital. 

She entered, loaded with china, silver and bottles, and 
behind her came a large man in a white apron, bearing 
three or four covered dishes in his hands. 

It was the order to go and obtain this repast from the 
village inn which had drawn from Bibiaine so many ex- 
clamations of wonder and dismay in the passage. 

A moment later the cure and his guests took their 
places at the table. 

Had the much-lamented chicken constituted the din- 
ner the rations would have been “short.'* This the 
worthy woman was obliged to confess, on seeing the 
te**rible appetite evinced by M. de Sairmeuse and his son. 

“One would have sworn that they had eaten nothing 
for a fortnight,” she told her friends, the next day. 

Abbe Midon was not hungry, though it was two o’clock, 
and he had eaten nothing since the previous evening. 

The sudden arrival of the former master of Sairmeuse 
filled his heart with gloomy forebodings. Their coming, 
he believed, presaged the greatest misfortunes. 

So, while he played with his knife and fork, pretend- 
ing to eat, he was really occupied in watching his guests, 
and in studying them with all the penetration of a priest, 
which, by the way, is generally far superior to that of 
a physician or of a magistrate. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse was fifty-seven, but looked 
considerably younger. 

The storms of his youth, the dissipation of his riper 
years, the great excesses of every kind in which he had 


40 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


indulged, had not impaired his iron constitution in the 
least. 

Of herculean build, he was extremely proud of his 
strength, and of his hands, which were well-formed, but 
large, firmly knit and powerful, such hands as rightfully 
belonged to a gentleman whose ancestors had given many 
a crushing blow with ponderous battle-ax in the crusades. 

His face revealed his character. He possessed all the 
graces and all the vices of a courtier. 

He was, at the same time, spirituel and ignorant, skep- 
tical and violently imbued with the prejudices of his 
class. 

Though less robust than his father. Martial was a no 
less distinguished looking cavalier. It was not strange 
that women raved over his blue eyes, and the beautiful 
blonde hair which he inherited from his mother. 

To his father he owed energy, courage, and, it must 
also be added, perversity. But he was his superior in 
education and in intellect. If he shared his father’s 
prejudices, he had not adopted them without weighing 
them carefully. What the father might do in a moment 
of excitement, the son was capable of doing in cold blood. 

It was thus that the abbe, with rare sagacity, read the 
character of his guests. 

So it was with great sorrow, but without surprise, that 
he heard the duke advance, on the questions of the day, 
the impossible ideas shared by nearly all the emigres. 

Knowing the condition of the country, and the state of 
public opinion, the cure endeavored to convince the ob- 
stinate man of his mistake ; but upon this subject the 
duke would not permit contradiction, or even raillery; 
and he was fast losing his temper, when Bibiaiue ap- 
peared at the parlor door. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


41 


“Monsieur le Duc,” said she, “M. Lacheneur and hia 
daughter are without and desire to speak to you.” 


CHAPTER IV. ' 

This name Lacheneur awakened no recollection in the 
mind of the duke. 

First, he had never lived at Sairmeuse. 

And even if he had, what courtier of the ancien regime 
ever troubled himself about the individual names of the 
peasants, whom he regarded with such profound indiffer- 
ence. 

When a grand seigneur addressed these people, he said : 
“Halloo I hi, there! friend, my worthy fellow!" 

So it was with the air of a man who is making an 
effort of memory that the Duke de Sairmeuse repeated : 

“Lacheneur — M. Lacheneur — " 

But Martial, a closer observer than his father, had 
noticed that the priest’s glance wavered at the sound of 
this name. 

“Who is this person, abbe?" demanded the duke, 
lightly. 

“M. Lacheneur," replied the priest with very evident 
hesitation, “is the present owner of the Chateau de Sair- 
meuse." 

Martial, the precocious diplomats, could not repress a 
smile on hearing this response, which he had foreseen. 
But the duke bounded from his chair. 

“Ah !" he exclaimed, “it is the rascal who has had the 
impudence — Let him come in, old woman, let him come 
in." 


42 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Bibiaine retired, and the priest’s uneasiness increased. 

“Permit me, Monsieur le Due,” he said, hastily, “to 
remark that M. Lacheneur exercises a great influence 
in this region — to offend him would be impolitic — ” 

“I understand — you advise me to be conciliatory. 
Such sentiments are purely Jacobin. If his majesty 
listens to the advice of such as you. all these sales of 
confiscated estates will be ratified. Zounds ! our inter- 
ests are the same. If the Revolution has deprived the 
nobility of their property, it has also impoverished the 
clergy.” 

“The possessions of a priest are not of this world, mon- 
sieur,” said the cure, coldly. 

M. de Sairmeuse was about to make some impertinent 
response, when M. Lacheneur appeared, followed by his 
daughter. 

The wretched man was ghastly pale, great drops of 
perspiration stood out upon his temples, his restless, hag- 
gard eyes revealed his distress of mind. 

Marie- Anne was as pale as her father, but her attitude 
and the light that burned in her eyes told of invincible 
energy and determination. 

“Ah, well! friend,” said the duke, “so we are the 
owner of Sairmeuse, it seems.” 

This was said with such a careless insolence of manner 
that the cure blushed that they should thus treat, in his 
own house, a man whom he considered his equal. 

He rose and offered the visitors chairs. 

“Will you take a seat, dear Monsieur Lacheneur?” 
said he, with a politeness intended as a lesson for the 
duke; “and you, also, mademoiselle, do me the honor — ” 

But the father and daughter both refused the proffered 
civility with a motion of the head. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


43 


“Monsieur le Due,” continued Lacheneur, “I am an 
old servant of your house — ” 

“Ah! indeed!” 

“Mademoiselle Armande, your aunt, accorded my 
poor mother the honor of acting as my godmother—” 

“Ah, yes I’ interrupted the duke. “I remember you 
now. Our family has shown great goodness to you and 
yours. And it was to prove your gratitude, probably, 
that you made haste to purchase our estate?” 

The former plowboy was of humble origin, but his 
heart and his character had developed with his fortunes ; 
he understood his own worth. 

Much as he was disliked, and even detested, by his 
neighbors, every one respected him. 

And here was a man who treated him with imdisguised 
scorn. Why? By what right? 

Indignant at the outrage, he made a movement as if 
to retire. 

No one, save his daughter, knew the truth; he had 
only to keep silence and Sairmeuse remained his. 

Yes, he had still the power to keep Sairmeuse, and he 
knew it, for he did not share the fears of the ignorant 
rustics. He was too well informed not to be able to dis- 
tinguish between the hopes of the Emigres and the pos- 
sible. He knew that an abyss separated the dream from 
the reality. A beseeching word, uttered in a low tone by 
his daughter, made him turn again to the duke. 

“If I purchased Sairmeuse,” he answered, in a voice 
husky with emotion, “it was in obedience to the com- 
mand of your dying aunt, and with the money which she 
gave me for that purpose. If you see me here, it is only 
because I come to restore to you the deposit confided to 
my keeping.” 


44 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Any one not belonging to that class of spoiled fools 
which, surround a throne would have been deeply 
touched. But the duke thought this grand act of hon- 
esty and of generosity the most simple and natural 
thing in the world. 

“That is very well, so far as the principle is con- 
cerned,” said he. “Let us speak now of the interest. 
Sairmeuse, if I remember rightly, yielded an average 
income of one thousand louis per year. These revenues, 
well invested, should have amounted to a very consider- 
able amount. Where is this?” 

This claim, thus advanced and at such a moment, was 
so outrageous, that Martial, disgusted, made a sign to 
his father which the latter did not see. 

But the cure, hoping to recall the extortioner to some- 
thing like a sense of shame, exclaimed ; 

“Monsieur le Due I Oh, Monsieur le Due !” 

Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders with an air of resig- 
nation. 

“The income I have used for my own living expenses, 
and in educating my children ; but most of it has been 
expended in improving the estate, which to-day yields 
an income twice as large as in former years.” 

“That is to say, for twenty years Monsieur Lacheneur 
has played the part of lord of the manor. A delightful 
comedy. You are rich now, I suppose?” 

“I possess nothing. But I hope you will allow me to 
take ten thousand francs, which your aunt gave to me.” 

‘ ' Ah ! she gave you ten thousand francs ? And when ? ’ ’ 

“On the same evening that she gave me the eighty 
thousand francs intended for the purchase of the estate.” 

“Perfect I What proof can you furnish that she gave 
you this sum?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


45 


Lacheneur stood motionless and speechless. He tried 
to reply, but he could not. If he opened his lips it would 
only be to pour forth a torrent of menaces, insults and 
invectives. , 

Marie- Anne stepped quickly forward. 

“The proof, monsieur,” said she, in a clear, ringing 
voice, “is the word of this man, who, of his own free 
will, comes to return to you— to give you a fortune.” 

As she sprang forward, her beautiful dark hair escaped 
from its confinement, the rich blood crimsoned her 
cheeks, her dark eyes fiashed brilliantly, and sorrow, 
anger, horror at the humiliation, imparted a sublime 
expression to her face. She was so beautiful that Martial * 
regarded her with wonder. 

“Lovely I” he murmured, in English ; “beautiful af y 
angel I” 

These words, which she understood, abashed Marie- 
Anne. But she had said enough ; her father felt that he 
was avenged. 

He drew from his pocket a roll of papers, and throw- 
ing them upon the table : 

“Here are your titles,” he said, addressing the duke 
in a tone full of implacable hatred. “Keep the legacy 
that your aunt gave me, I wish nothing of yours. I will 
never set foot in Sairmeuse again. Penniless I entered 
it, penniless I will leave it I” 

He quitted the room with head proudly erect, and 
when they were outside, he said but one word to his 
daughter: “Well?” 

“You have done your duty,” she replied; “it is those 
who have not done it who are to be pitied 1” 

She had no opportunity to say more. Martial came 
running after them, anxious for another chance of see- 


46 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ingthis young girl, whose beauty had made such a strong 
impression upon him. 

“I hastened after you,” he said, addressing Marie- 
Anne, rather than M. Lacheneur, “to reassure you. All 
this will be arranged, mademoiselle. Eyes so beautiful 
as yours should never know tears. I will be your ad- 
vocate with my father—” 

“Mdlle. Lacheneur has no need of an advocate!” a 
harsh voice interrupted. 

Martial turned, and saw the young man who, that 
morning, went to warn M. Lacheneur of the duke’s 
arrival. 

“I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse !” he said, insolently. 

“And I,” said the other, quietly, “am Maurice d’Es- 

rval.” 

They surveyed each other for a moment ; each expect- 
ing, perhaps, an insult from the other. Instinctively, 
they felt that they were to be enemies ; and the bitterest 
animosity spoke in the glances they exchanged. Per- 
haps tbey felt a presentiment that they were to be the 
champions of two different principles, as well as rivals. 

Martial, remembering his father, yielded. 

“We shall meet again. Monsieur d’Escorval,” he said, 
as he retired. 

At this threat, Maurice shrugged his shoulders, and 
said : “You had better not desire it.” 


IHl CHAPTER Y. 

The abode of the Baron d’Escorval, that brick struct- 
ure with stone trimmings which was visible from the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


47 


superb avenue leading to Sairmeuse, was small and un- 
pretentious. 

Its chief attraction was a pretty lawn that extended to 
the banks of the Oiselle, and a small but beautifully 
shaded park. 

It was known as the Chateau d’Escorval, but that ap- 
pellation was gross flattery. Any petty manufacturer 
who had amassed a small fortune would have desired a 
larger, handsomer and more imposing establishment. 

M. d’ Escorval — and it will be an eternal honor to him 
in history— was not rich. 

Although he had been intrusted with several of those 
missions from which generals and diplomats often return 
laden with millions, M. d’Escorval’s worldly possessions 
consisted only of the little patrimony bequeathed him by 
his father : a property which yielded an income of from 
twenty to twenty-flve thousand francs a year. 

This modest dwelling, situated about a mile from Sair- 
meuse, represented the savings of ten years. 

He had built it in 1806, from a plan drawn by his own 
hand ; and it was the dearest spot on earth to him. 

He always hastened to this retreat when his work al- 
lowed him a few days of rest. . But this time, he had not 
come to Escorval of his own free will. 

He had been compelled to leave Paris by the proscribed 
list of the 24th of July— that fatal list which summoned 
the enthusiastic Labedoyere and the honest and virtuous 
Drouot before a court-martial. 

And even in this solitude, M. d’EscorvaPs situation 
was not without danger. 

He was one of those who, some days before the disaster 
of Waterloo, had strongly urged the emperor to orde*^ 
the execution of Fouche, the former minister of police- 


48 


MONSIEUE LECOQ. 


Now, Fouche knew this counsel; and he was all 
powerful. 

“Take care!” M. d’Escorval’s friends wrote him from 
Paris. 

But he put his trust in Providence, and faced the 
future, threatening though it was, with the unalterable 
serenity of a pure conscience. 

The baron was still young : he was not yet fifty, but 
anxiety, work, and long nights passed in struggling with 
the most arduous difficulties of the imperial policy, had 
made him old before his time. 

He was tall, slightly inclined to embonpoint, and 
stooped a little. 

His calm eyes, his serious mouth, his broad, furrowed 
forehead, and liis austere manners inspired respect. 

“He must be stern and inflexible,” said those who saw 
him for the first time. 

. But they were mistaken. 

If, in the exercise of his official duties, this truly great 
man had the strength to resist all temptations to swerve 
from the path of right; if, when duty was at stake, he 
was as rigid as iron, in private life he was as unassum- 
ing as a child, and kind and gentle even to the verge of 
weakness. 

To this nobility of character he owed his domestic hap- 
piness, that rare and precious happiness which fills one’s 
existence with a celestial perfume. 

During the bloodiest epoch of the Reign of Terror, M. 
d’Escorval had wrested from the guillotine a young girl, 
named Victoire-Laure de I’Alleu, a distant cousin of the 
Rhetaus of Commarin, as beautiful as an angel, and only 
three years younger than himself. 

He loved her— and though she was an orphan, destitute 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


49 


of fortune, he married her, considering the~ treasure of 
her virgin heart of far greater value than the most mag- 
nificent dowry. 

She was an honest woman, as her husband was an hon- 
est man, in the most strict and vigorous sense of the 
word. 

She was seldom seen at the Tuileries, where M. d’Es- 
corvaFs worth made him eagerly welcomed. The splen- 
dors of the Imperial Court, which at that time surpassed 
all the pomp of the time of Louis XIY., had no attrac- 
tions for her. Grace, beauty, youth and accomplishments 
— she reserved them all for the adornment of her home. 

Her husband was her God. She lived in him and 
through him. She had not a thought which did not 
belong to him. 

The short time that he could spare from his arduous 
labors to devote to her were her happiest hours. 

And -when, in the evening, they sat beside the fire in 
their modest drawing-room, with their son Maurice play- 
ing on the rug at their feet, it seemed to them that they 
had nothing to wish for here below. 

The overthrow of the empire surprised them in the 
heyday of their happiness. 

Surprised them? No. For a long time M. d’Escorval 
had seen the prodigious edifice erected by the genius 
whom he had made his idol, totter as if about to fall. 

Certainly, he felt intense chagrin at this fall, but he 
was heartbroken at the sight of all the treason and 
cowardice which followed it. He was indignant and 
horrified at the rising en masse of the avaricious, who 
hastened to gorge themselves with the spoil. 

Under these circumstances, exile from Paris seemed 
an actual blessing. 


50 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Besides,” as he remarked to the baroness, “we shall 
soon be forgotten here.” 

But even while he said this he felt many misgivings. 
Still, by his side, his noble wife presented a tranquil 
face, even while she trembled for the safety of her 
adored husband. 

On this first Sunday in August, M. d’Escorval and his 
wife had been unusually sad. A vague presentiment 
of approaching misfortune weighed heavily upon their 
hearts. 

At the same hour that Lacheneur presented himself at 
the house of the Abbe Midon, they were seated upon the 
terrace in front of the house, gazing anxiously at the 
two roads leading from Escorval to the chateau, and to 
the village of Sairmeuse. 

Warned, that same morning, by his friends in Mon- 
taignac of the arrival of the duke, the baron had sent his 
son to inform M. Lacheneur. ’r" ' 

He had requested him to be absent as short a time as 
possible ; but in spite of this fact, the hours were rolling 
by, and Maurice had not returned. 

“What if something has happened to hi m !” both father 
and mother were thinking. 

No ; nothing had happened to him. Only a word from 
Mdlle. Lacheneur had sufficed to make him forget his 
usual deference to his father’s wishes. 

“This evening,” she had said, “I shall certainly know 
your heart.” \ 

What could this mean? Could she doubt him? 

Tortured by the most cruel anxieties, the poor youth 
could not resolve to go away without an explanation, 
and he hung around the chateau, hoping that Marie- 
Anne would reappear. ^ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


51 


She did reappear, at last, but leaning upon the arm of 
her father. 

Yoimg D’Escorval followed them at a distance, and 
soon saw them enter the parsonage. What were they 
going to do there? He knew that the duke and his son 
were within. 

The time that they had remained there, and which he 
passed in the public square, seemed more than a century 
long. They emerged at last, however, and he was about to 
join them when he was prevented by the appearance of 
Martial, whose promises he overheard. 

Maurice knew nothing of life ; he was as innocent as a 
cliild, but he could not mistake the intentions that dic- 
tated this step on the part of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. 

At the thought that a libertine’s caprice should dare 
rest for an instant upon the pure and beautiful girl whom 
he loved with all the strength of his being — whom he had 
sworn should be his wife — all his blood mounted madly 
to his brain. 

He felt a wild longing to chastise the insolent wretch. 

Fortunately — unfortunately, perhaps — his hand was 
arrested by the recollection of a phrase which he had 
heard his father repeat a thousand times : 

“Calmness and irony are the only weapons worthy of 
the strong.’’ 

And he possessed sufficient strength of will to appear 
calm, while in reality, he was beside himself with pas- 
sion. It was Martial who lost his self-control, and who 
threatened him. 

“Ah! yes, I will find you again, upstart!’’ repeated 
Maurice, through his set teeth, as he watched his enemy 
move away. 

For Maurice had turned and discovered that Marie- 


52 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Anne and her father had left him. He saw them stand- 
ing about a hundred paces from him. Although he was 
surprised at their indifference, he made haste to join 
them, and addressed M. Lacheneur : 

“We are just going to your father’s house,” was the 
response he received, in an almost ferocious tone. 

A glance from Marie- Anne commanded silence. He 
obeyed, and walked a few steps behind them, with his 
head bowed upon his breast, terribly anxious, and seek 
ing vainly to explain what had passed. 

His attitude betrayed such intense sorrow that his 
mother divined it as soon as she caught sight of him. 

All the anguish which this courageous woman had hid- 
den for a month, found utterance in a single cry : 

“Ah! here is misfortune!” said she; “we shall not 
escape it. ” 

It was, indeed, misfortune. One could not doubt it 
when one saw M. Lacheneur enter the drawing-room. 

He advanced with the heavy, uncertain step of a 
drunken man, his eyes void of expression, his features 
distorted, his lips pale and trembling. 

“What has happened?” asked the baron, eagerly. 

But the other did not seem to hear him. 

“Ah! I warned her,” he murmured, continuing a 
monologue which had begun before he entered the 
room. “I told my daughter so.” 

Mme. d’Escorval, after kissing Marie- Anne, drew the 
girl toward her. 

“What has happened? For God’s sake, tell me what 
has happened !” she exclaimed. 

With a gesture expressive of the most sorrowful resig- 
nation, the girl motioned her to look and listen to M. 
Lacheneur. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


53 


He had recovered from that stupor — that gift of God 
— which follows crises that are too terrible for human 
endurance. Like a sleeper who, on waking, finds the 
miseries, forgotten during his slumber, lying in wait for 
him, he regained with consciousness the capacity to 
suffer. 

“It is only this. Monsieur le Baron,” replied the un- 
fortunate man in a harsh, unnatural voice: “I rose this 
morning the richest proprietor in the country, and I 
shall lay down to-night poorer than the poorest beggar 
in this commune. I had everything; I no longer have 
anything— nothing but my two hands. They earned me 
my bread for twenty-five years; they will earn it for 
me now until the day of my death. I had a beautiful 
dream ; it is ended !” 

Before this outburst of despair, M. d’Escorval turned 
pale. 

“You must exaggerate your misfortune,” he faltered; 
“explain what has happened.” 

Unconscious of what he was doing, M. Lacheneur 
threw his hat upon a chair, and flinging back his long, 
gray hair, he said : 

“To you I will tell all. I came here for that purpose. 
I know you; I know your heart. And have you not 
done me the honor to call me your friend?” 

Then, with the cruel exactness of the living, breathing 
truth, he related the scene which had just taken place at 
the presbytery. 

The baron listened, petrified with astonishment, almost 
doubting the evidence of his own senses. Mme. d’Escor- 
val’s indignant and sorrowful exclamations showed that 
every noble sentiment in her soul revolted against such 
injustice. 


54 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


But there was one auditor, whom Marie-Anne alone 
observed, who was moved to his very entrails by this 
recital. This auditor was Maurice. 

Leaning against the door, pale as death, he tried most 
energetically, but in vain, to repress the tears of rage and 
of sorrow which swelled up in his eyes. 

To insult Lacheneur was to insult Marie-Anne — that is 
to say, to injure, to strike, to outrage him in all that he 
held most dear in the world. 

Ah ! it is certain that Martial, had he been within his 
reach, would have paid dearly for these insults to the 
father of the girl Maurice loved. 

But he swore that this chastisement was only deferred 
— that it should surely come. 

And it was not mere angry boasting. This young 
man, though so modest and so gentle in manner, had a 
heart that was inaccessible to fear. His beautiful dark 
eyes, which had the trembling timidity of the eyes of a 
young girl, met the gaze of an enemy without flinching. 

When M. Lacheneur had repeated the last words which 
he had addressed to the Duke de Sairmeuse, M. d’Escor- 
val offered him his hand. 

“I have told you already that I was your friend,” he 
said, in a voice faltering with emotion; “but I must tell 
you to-day that I am proud of having such a friend as 
you.” 

The unfortunate man trembled at the touch of that 
loyal hand which clasped his so warmly, and his face be- 
trayed an ineffable satisfaction. 

“If my father had not returned it,” murmured the 
obstinate Marie-Anne, “my father would have been an 
unfaithful guardian— a thief I He has done only his 
duty.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


55 


M. d’Escorval turned to the young girl, a little sur- 
prised. 

“You speak the truth, mademoiselle,” he said, re- 
proachfully; “but when you are as old as I am, and 
have had my experience, you will know that the accom- 
plishment of a duty is, under certain circumstances, a 
heroism of which few persons are capable.” 

M. Lacheneur turned to his friend. 

“All! your words do me good, monsieur,” said he. 
“Now, I am content with what I have done.” 

The baroness rose, too much the woman to know how 
to resist the generous dictates of her heart. 

“And I, also. Monsieur Lacheneur,” she said, “desire 
to press your hand. I wish to tell you that I esteem you 
as much as I despise the ingrates who have sought to 
humiliate you, when they should have fallen at your 
feet. They are heartless monsters, the like of whom 
certainly cannot be found upon the earth.” 

“Alas!” sighed the baron, “the allies have brought 
back others who, like these men, think the world created 
exclusively for their benefit.” 

“And these people wish to be our masters,” growled 
Lacheneur. 

By some strange fatality no one chanced to hear the 
remark made by M. Lacheneur. Had they overheard 
and questioned him, he would probably have disclosed 
some of the projects which were as yet in embryo in his 
own mind ; and in that case what disastrous consequences 
might have been averted. 

M. d’Escorval had regained his usual coolness. 

“Now, my dear friend,” he inquired, “what course do 
you propose to pursue with these members of the Sair- 
meuse family?” 


56 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“They will hear nothing more from me — for some 
time, at least.” 

What ! Shall you not claim the ten thousand francs 
that they owe you?” 

“I shall ask them for nothing.” 

“You will be compelled to do so. Since you have al- 
luded to the legacy, your own honor will demand that 
you insist upon its payment by all legal methods. There 
are still judges in France.” 

M. Lacheneur shook his head. “The judges will not 
accord me the justice I desire. I shall not apply to them. ” 

“But—” 

“No, monsieur, no. I wish to have nothing to do 
with these men. I shall not even go to the chateau to 
remove my clothing nor that of my daughter. If they 
send it to us — very well. If it pleases them to keep it, 
so much the better. The more shameful, infamous and 
odious their conduct appears, the better I shall be satis- 
fied.” 

The baron made no reply ; but his wife spoke, believ- 
ing she had a sure means of conquering this incompre- 
hensible obstinacy. 

“I should understand your determination if you were 
alone in the world,” said she, “but you have children.” 

“My son is eighteeen, madame; he possesses good 
health and an excellent education. He can make his 
own way in Paris, if he chooses to remain there.” 

“But your daughter?” 

“Marie- Anne will remain with me.” 

M. d’Escorval thought it his duty to interfere. 

“Take care, my dear friend, that your grief does not 
overthrow your reason,” said he. “Reflect ! What will 
become of you— your daughter and yourself?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


57 


The wretched man smiled sadly. 

“Oh! “ he replied, “we are not as destitute as I said. ‘ 
I exaggerated our misfortune. We are still landed pro- 
prietors. Last year an old cousin, whom I could never 
induce to come and live at Sairmeuse, died, bequeathing 
all her property to Marie- Anne. This property consisted 
of a poor little cottage near the Reche, with a little gar- 
den and a few acres of sterile land. In compliance with 
my daughter’s entreaties, I repaired the cottage and sent 
there a few articles of furniture — a table, some chairs, 
and a couple of beds. My daughter designed it as a 
home for old Father Guvat and his wife. And I, sur- 
rounded by wealth and luxury, said to myself : ‘How 
comfortable those two old people will be there. They 
will live as snug as a bug in a rug!’ Well, what I 
thought so comfortable for others, will be good enough 
for me. I will raise vegetables, and Marie-Anne shall 
sell them.’’ 

Was he speaking seriously? 

Maurice must have supposed so, for he sprang forward. 

“This shall not be. Monsieur Lacheneur!’’ he ex- 
claimed. 

“Oh—” 

“No, this shall not be, for I love Marie-Anne, and I 
ask you to giv^e her to me for my wife.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

Maurice and Marie-Anne had loved each other for 
many years. 

As children, they had played together in the magnifi- 


58 * 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


cent grounds surrounding the Chateau de Sairmeuse, and 
in the park at Escorval. 

Together they chased the brilliant butterflies, searched 
for pebbles on the banks of the river, or rolled in the hay 
while their mothers sauntered through the meadows 
bordering the Oiselle. 

For their mothers were friends. 

Mme. Lacheneur had been reared like other poor peas- 
ant girls ; that is to say, on the day of her marriage it 
was only with great difficulty she succeeded in inscrib- 
ing her name upon the register. 

But from the example of her husband she had learned 
that prosperity, as well as noblesse, entails certain obliga- 
tions upon one, and with rare courage, crowned with 
still rarer success, she had undertaken to acquire an 
education in keeping with her fortune and her new ranlc. 

And the baroness had made no effort to resist the sym- 
pathy that attracted her to this meritorious young wo- 
man, in whom she had discerned a really superior mind 
and a truly refined nature. 

When Mme. Lacheneur died, Mme. d ’Escorval mourned 
for her as she would have mourned for a favorite sister. 

From that moment Maurice’s attachment assumed a 
more serious character. 

Educated in a Parisian lyceum, his teachers sometimes 
had occasion to complain of his want of application. 

“If your professors are not satisfied with you,” said 
his mother, “you shall not accompany me to Escorval 
on the coming of your vacation, and you will not see 
your little friend.” 

And this simple threat was always sufficient to make 
the schoolboy resume his studies with redoubled dili- 
gence. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


59 


So each year, as it passed, strengthened the grande 
passion, which preserved Maurice from the restlessness 
and the errors of adolescence. 

The two children were equally timid and artless, and 
equally infatuated with each other. 

Long walks in the twilight under the eyes of their 
parents, a glance that revealed their delight at meeting 
each other, flowers exchanged between them — which 
were religiously preserved —such were their simple 
pleasures. 

But that magical and sublime word : love — so sweet to 
utter and so sweet to hear — had never once dropped from 
their lips. 

The audacity of Maurice had never gone beyond a 
furtive pressure of the hand. 

The parents could not be ignorant of this mutual affec- 
tion ; and if they pretended to shut their eyes, it was 
only because it did not displease them nor disturb their 
plans. 

M. and Mme. d’Escorval saw no objection to their 
son’s marriage with a young girl whose nobility of 
character they appreciated, and who was as beautiful 
as she was good. That she was the richest heiress in all 
the country round about was, naturally, no objection. 

So far as M. Lacheneur was concerned, he was de- 
lighted at the prospect of a marriage which would ally 
him, a former plowboy, with an old family whose head 
was universally respected. 

So, although no direct allusion to the subject had ever 
escaped the lips of the baron or of M. Lacheneur, there 
was a tacit agreement between the two families. 

Yes, the marriage was considered a foregone conclu- 
sion. 


60 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


And yet this impetuous and unexpected declaration 
by Maurice struck every one dumb. 

In spite of his agitation, the young man perceived the 
effect produced by his words, and frightened by his own 
boldness, he turned and looked questioningly at his 
father. 

The baron’s face was grave, even sad ; but his attitude 
expressed no displeasure. 

This gave renewed courage to the anxious lover. 

“You will excuse me, monsieur,” he said, addressing 
Lacheneur, “for presenting my request in such a manner, 
and at such a time. But surely, when fate glowers omi- 
nously upon you, that is the time when your friends should 
declare themselves — and deem themselves fortunate if 
their devotion can make you forget the infamous treat- 
ment to which you have been subjected.” 

As he spoke, he was watching Marie- Anne. 

Blushing and embarrassed, she turned away her head, 
perhaps to conceal the tears which inundated her face — 
tears of joy and of gratitude. 

The love of the man she adored came forth victorious 
from a test which it would not be prudent for many 
heiresses to impose. 

Now she could truly say that she knew Maurice’s heart. 

He, however, continued: 

“I have not consulted my father, sir; but I know his 
affection for me and his esteem for you. When the hap- 
piness of my life is at stake, he will not oppose me. He, 
who married my dear mother without a dowry, must 
understand my feelings.” 

He was silent, awaiting the verdict. 

“I approve your course, my son,” said M. d’Escorval, 
deeply affected ; “you have conducted yourself like an 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


61 


honorable man. Certainly you are very young to be- 
come the head of a family ; but, as you say, circum- 
stances demand it.” 

He turned to M. Lacheneur, and added : 

‘‘My dear friend, I, in my son's behalf, ask the hand 
of your daughter in marriage.” 

Maurice had not expected so little opposition. 

In his delight he was almost tempted to bless the hate- 
ful Duke de Sairmeuse, to whom he would owe his ap- 
proaching happiness. 

He sprang toward his father, and, seizing his hands, 
he raised them to his lips, faltering : 

‘‘Thanks! — you are so good! I love you! Oh, how 
happy I am !” 

•Alas I the poor boy was in too much haste to rejoice. 

A gleam of pride flashed in M. Lacheneur’s eyes ; but 
his face soon resumed its gloomy expression. 

‘‘Believe me. Monsieur le Baron, I am deeply touched 
by your grandeur of soul — yes, deeply touched. You 
wish to make me forget my humiliation ; but, for this 
very reason, I should be the most contemptible of men 
if I did not refuse the great honor you desire to confer 
upon my daughter.” 

‘‘What!” exclaimed the baron, in utter astonishment; 
‘‘you refuse?” 

‘‘I am compelled to do so.” 

Thunderstruck at first, Maurice afterward renewed the 
attack with an energy which no one had ever suspected 
in his character before. 

‘‘Do you, then, wish to ruin my life, monsieur?” he 
exclaimed— “to ruin our lives ; for, if I love Marie-Anne, 
she also loves me.” 

It was easy to see that he spoke the truth. The un- 


62 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


happy girl, crimson with happy blushes the moment 
before, had suddenly become whiter than marble as she 
looked imploringly at her father. 

“It cannot be,” repeated M. Lacheneur; “and the day 
will come when you will bless the decision I make known 
at this moment.” 

Alarmed by her son’s agony. Mine. d’Escorval inter- 
posed : “You must have reasons for this refusal.” 

“None that I can disclose, madame. But never while 
I live shall my daughter be your son’s wife !” 

“Ah! it will kill my child !” exclaimed the baroness. 

M. Lacheneur shook his head. 

“M. Maurice,” said he, “is young; he will console him- 
self — he will forget.” 

“Never!” interrupted the unhappy lover — “never!” 

“And your daughter?” inquired the baroness. 

Ah ! this was the weak spot in his armor ; the instinct 
of a mother was not mistaken. M. Lacheneur hesitated 
a moment ; but he finally conquered the weakness that 
had threatened to master him. 

“Marie- Anne,” he replied, slowly, “knows her duty 
too well not to obey when I command. When I tell her 
the motive that governs my conduct, she will become 
resigned; and if she suffers, she will know how to con- 
ceal her sufferings.” 

He paused suddenly. They heard in the distance a 
firing of musketry, the discharge of rifles, whose sharp 
ring overpowered even the sullen roar of cannon. 

Every face grew pale. Circumstances imparted to 
these sounds an ominous significance. 

With the same anguish clutching the hearts of both, 
M. d’Escorval and Lacheneur sprang out upon the ter- 
race. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


63 '' 

But all was still again. Extended as was the horizon, 
the eye could discern nothing unusual. The sky was 
blue ; not a particle of smoke hung over the trees. 

“It is the enemy,” muttered M. Lacheneur, in a tone 
which told how gladly he would have shouldered his 
gun and, with five hundred others, marched against the 
united allies. 

He paused. The explosions were repeated with still 
greater violence, and for a period of five minutes suc- 
ceeded each other without cessation. 

M. d’Escorval listened with knitted brows. 

“That is not the fire of an engagement,” he murmured. 

To remain long in such a state of uncertainty was out 
of the question. 

“If you will permit me, father,” ventured Maurice, “I 
will go and ascertain — ” 

“Go,” replied the baron quietly, “but if it is anything, 
which I doubt, do not expose yourself to danger — re- 
turn.” 

“Oh, be prudent!” insisted Mme. d’Escorval, who al- 
ready saw her son exposed to the most frightful peril. 

“Be prudent!” entreated Marie- Anne, who alone un- 
derstood what attractions danger might have for a de- 
spairing and unhappy man. 

These cautions were unnecessary. As Maurice .was 
rushing to the door, his father stopped him. 

“Wait,” said he ; “here is some one who can probably 
give us information.” 

A man had just appeared around a turn of the road 
leading to Sairmeuse. 

He was advancing bareheaded in the middle of the 
dusty road, with hurried strides, and occasionally 
brandishing his stick, as if threatening an enemy visible 


64 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to himself alone. Soon they were able to distinguish his 
features. 

“It is Chanlouineau !” exclaimed M. Lacheneur. 

“The owner of the vineyards on the Borderie?” 

“The same! The handsomest young farmer in the 
country, and the best also. Ah ! he has good blood in 
his veins ; we may well be proud of him.” 

“Ask him to stop,” said M. d’Escorval. 

Lacheneur leaned over the balustrade, and forming a 
trumpet out of his two hands, he called : 

“Oh ! — Chanlouineau !” 

The robust young farmer raised his head. 

“Come up,” shouted Lacheneur; “the baron wishes to 
speak with you. ’ ’ 

Chanlouineau responded by a gesture of assent. They 
saw him enter the gate, cross the garden, and at last 
appear at the door of the drawing-room. 

His features were distorted with fury, his disordered 
clothing gave evidence of a serious conflict. His cravat 
was gone, and his torn shirt-collar revealed his muscular 
throat. 

“Where is this fighting?” demanded Lacheneur, 
eagerly; “and with whom?” 

Chanlouineau gave a nervous laugh, which resembled 
a roar of rage. 

“They' are not fighting,” he replied; “they are amus- 
ing themselves. This firing which you hear is in honor 
of M. le Due de Sairmeuse.” r'y 

“Impossible !” 

“I know it very well — and yet, what I have told you 
is the truth. It is the work of that miserable wretch 
and thief, Chupin. Ah, canaille! If I ever find him 
within reach of my arm, he will never steal again I” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


65 


M. Lacheneur was confounded. 

“Tell us what has happened,” he said, excitedly. 

“Oh, it is as clear as daylight. When the duke arrived 
at Sairmeuse, Chupin, the old scoundrel, with his two 
rascally boys, and that old hag, his wife, ran after the 
carriage like beggars after a diligence, crying, ‘Vive 
Monsieur le Due!’ The duke was enchanted, for he 
doubtless expected a volley of stones, and he placed a 
six franc piece in the hand of each of the wretches. 
This money gave Chupin an appetite for more, so he took 
it into his head to give this old noble a reception like that 
which was given to the Emperor. Having learned, 
through Bibiaine, whose tongue is as long as a viper’s, 
all that had passed at the presbytery between you, Mon- 
sieur Lacheneur, and the duke, he came and proclaimed 
it in the market-place. When they heard it, all who had 
purchased national lands were frightened. Chupin had 
counted on this, and soon he began telling the poor fools 
that they must burn powder under the duke’s nose if they 
wished to confirm their titles to their property. ’ ’ 

“And did they believe him?” 

“Implicitly. It did not take them long to make their 
preparations. They went to the town hall and took the 
firemen’s rifles, and the guns used for firing a salute on 
fete days, the mayor gave them the powder, and you 
heard — 

“When I left Sairmeuse there was more than two hun- 
dred idiots before the presbytery, shouting : 

“ 'Vive Monseigneur ! Vive le Due de Sairmeuse !* ” 

It was as D’Escorval had thought. 

“The same pitiful farce that was played in Paris, 
only on a smaller scale,” he murmured. “Avarice and 
human cowardice are the same the world over !” 


66 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Meanwhile, Chanloiiineau was going on with his re- 
cital. 

“To make the fete complete, the devil must have 
vv^arned all the nobility in the neighborhood, for they 
all came running. They say that M. de Sairmeuse is a 
favorite with the king, and that he can get anything he 
wishes. So you can imagine how they all greeted him ! 
I am only a poor peasant, but never would I lie down in 
the dust before any man, as these old nobles who are so 
haughty with us did before the duke. They kissed his 
hands, and he allowed them to do it. He walked about 
the square with the Marquis de Courtornieu — “ 

“And his son?” interrupted Maurice. 

“The Marquis Martial, is it not? He is also walking 
before the church with Mdlle. Blanche de Coui-tornieu 
upon his arm. Ah ! I do not understand how people can 
call her pretty — a little bit of a thing, so blonde that one 
might suppose her hair was gray. Ah, how those two 
laughed and made fun of the peasants. They say they 
are going to marry each other. And even this evening 
there is to be a banquet at the Chateau de Courtornieu in 
honor of the duke.” 

He had told all he knew. He paused. 

“You have forgotten only one thing,” said M. Lache- 
neur; “that is, to tell us how your clothing happened to 
bo torn, as if you had been fighting.” 

The young farmer hesitated for a moment, then re- 
plied somewhat bruskly : 

“I can tell you, all the same. While Chupin was 
preaching, I also preached, but not in the same strain. 
The scoundrel reported me. So, in crossing the square, 
the duke paused before me and remarked : ‘So you are 
an evil disposed person?’ I said no, but that I knew my 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


67 


rights. Then he took me by the coat and shook me, and 
told me that he would cure me, and that he would take 
possession of his vineyard again. Saint Dieu ! When 
I felt the old rascal’s hand upon me my blood boiled. I 
pinioned him. Fortunately six or seven men fell upon 
me, and compelled me to let him go. But he had better 
make up his mind not to come prowling around my vine- 
yard !” 

He clinched his hands, his eyes blazed ominously, his 
whole person breathed an intense desire for vengeance. 

And M. d’Escorval was silent, fearing to aggravate 
this hatred, so imprudently kindled, and whose explo- 
sion, he believed, would be terrible. 

M. Lacheneur had risen from his chair. 

“I mast go and take possession of my cottage,” he re- 
marked to Chanlouineau ; “you will accompany me; I 
have a proposition to make to you.” 

M. and Mme. d’Escorval endeavored to detain him, 
but he would not allow himself to be persuaded, and he 
departed with his daughter. 

But Maurice did not despair. Marie- Anne had prom- 
ised to meet him the following day in the pine grove 
near the Beche. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The demonstrations which had greeted the Duke de 
Sairmeuse had been correctly reported by Chanlouineau. 

Chupin had found the secret of kindling to a white 
heat the enthusiasm of the cold and calculating peasants 
who were his neighbors. 

He was a dangerous rascal, the old robber, shrewd and 


G8 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


cautious ; bold, as those who possess nothing can afford 
to be ; as patient as a savage ; in short, one of the most 
consummate scoundrels that ever existed. 

The peasants feared him, and yet they had no concep- 
tion of his real character. 

All his resources of mind had, until now, been ex- 
pended in evading the precipice of the rural code. 

To save himself from falling into the hands of the 
gendarmes, and to steal a few sacks of wheat, he had 
expended treasures of intrigue which would have made 
the fortunes of twenty diplomates. 

Circumstances, as he always said, had been against 
him. 

So he desperately caught at the first and only oppor- 
tunity worthy of his talent, which liad ever presented 
itself. 

Of course, the wily rustic had said nothing of the true 
circumstances which attended the restoration of Sair- 
meuse to its former owner. . ^ 

From him, the peasants learned only the bare fact ; 
and the news spread rapidly from group to group. 

'‘M. Lacheneur has given up Sairmeuse,” said he. 
“Chateau, forests, vineyards, fields— he surrenders every- 
thing. ’ ’ 

This was enough, and more than enough, to terrify 
every landowner in the village. 

If Lacheneur, this man who was so powerful in their 
eyes, considered the danger so threatening that he 
deemed it necessary or advisable to make a complete 
surrender, what was to become of them— poor devils— 
without aid, without counsel, without defense? 

They were told that the government was about to be- 
tray their interests ; that a decree was in process of prep- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


69 


aration which could render their title-deeds wortliless. 
They could see no hope of salvation, except ttirough 
the duke’s generosity — that generosity which Chupin 
painted with the glowing colors of the rainbow. 

When one is not strong enough to weather the gale, 
one must bow like the reed before it, and rise again after 
the storm has passed ; such was their conclusion. 

And they bowed. And their apparent enthusiasm was 
all the more vociferous on account of the rage and fear 
that filled their hearts. 

A close observer would have detected an undercurrent 
of anger and menace in their shouts. 

Each man also said to himself : 

“What do we risk by crying, ‘Viv^e le due?’ Nothing, 
absolutely nothing. If he is contented with that as a 
compensation for his lost property — good I If he is not 
content, we shall have time afterward to adopt other 
m<. -^aiires.” 

So they shouted themselves hoarse. 

And while the duke was sipping his coffee in the little 
drawing-room of the presbytery, he expressed his lively 
satisfaction at the scene without. 

He, this grand seigneur of times gone by ; this man 
of absurd prejudices and obstinate illusions; the uncon- 
querable, and the incorrigible — he took these acclama- 
tions, “truly spurious coin,” as Chateaubriand says, 
for ready money. 

“How you have deceived me, sure,” he was saying to 
Abbe Midon; “how could you declare that your people 
were unfavorably disposed toward us? One is compelled 
to believe that these evil intentions exist only in your 
own mind and in your own heart.” 

Abbe Midon was silent. What could he reply? 


70 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He could not understand this sudden revolution in 
public opinion— this abrupt change from gloom and dis- 
content to excessive gayety. 

There is somebody at the bottom of all this, he thought. 

It was not long before it became apparent who that 
somebody was. 

Emboldened by his success without, Chupin ventured 
to present himself at the presbytery. 

He entered the drawing-room with his back rounded 
into a circle, scraping and cringing, an obsequious smile 
upon his lips. 

And through the half-open door one could discern, in 
the shadows of the passage, the far from reassuring faces 
of his two sons. 

He came as an embassador, he declared, after an in- 
terminable litany of protestations — he came to implore 
“monseigneur” to show himself upon the public square. 

“Ah, well — yes!” exclaimed the duke, rising; “yes, 
I will yield to the wishes of these good people. . Follow 
me, marquis!” 

As he appeared at the door of the presbytery, a loud 
shout rent the air ; the rifles were discharged, the guns 
belched forth their smoke and fire. Never had Sairmeuse 
heard such a salvo of artillery. Three windows in the 
Boeuf Couronne were shattered. 

A veritable grand seigneur, the Duke de Sairmeuse 
knew how to preserve an appearance of haughtiness and 
indifference. Any display of emotion was, in his opin- 
ion, vulgar ; but, in reality, he was deliglited, charmed. 

So delighted that he desired to reward his welcomers. 

A glance over the deeds handed him by Lacheneur 
had shown him that Sairmeuse had been restored to him 
intact. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


71 


The portions of the immense domain ivhich had been 
detached and sold separately were of relatively minor 
importance. 

The duke thought it would be politic, and, at the same 
time, inexpensive, to abandon all claim to these few 
acres, which were now shared by forty or fifty peasants. 

“My friends,” he exclaimed, in a loud voice, “I re- 
nounce, for myself and for my descendants, all claim to 
the lands belonging to my house which you have pur- 
chased. They are yours — I give them to you !” 

By this absurd pretense of a gift, M. de Sairmeuse 
thought to add the finishing touch to his popularity. A 
great mistake ! It simply assured the popularity of 
Chupin, the organizer of the farce. 

And while the duke was promenading through the 
crowd with a proud and self-satisfied air, the peasants 
were secretly laughing and jeering at him. 

And if they promptly took sides with him against 
Chanlouineau, it was only because his gift was still 
fresh in their minds ; except for this — 

But the duke had not time to think much about this 
encounter which produced a vivid impression upon his 
son. 

One of his former companions in exile, the Marquis de 
Courtornieu, whom he had informed of his arrival, has- 
tened to welcome him, accompanied by his daughter, 
Mdlle. Blanche. 

Martial could do no less than offer bis arm to tlie 
daughter of his father’s friend ; and they took a leisure- 
ly promenade in the shade of the lofty trees while the 
duke renewed his acquaintance with all the nobility of 
the neighborhood. 

There was not a (single nobleman who did not hasten 


7 *^ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to press the hand of the Duke de Sairmeuse, First, he 
possessed, it was said, a property of more than twenty 
millions in England. Then he was the friend of the 
king, and each neighbor had some favor to ask for him- 
self, for his relatives, or for his friends. 

Poor king! He should have had entire France to 
divide like a cake between these cormorants, whose 
'mracious appetites it was impossible to satisfy. 

That evening, after a grand banquet at the Chateau de 
^ ^ ornieu, the duke slept in the^ Chateau de Sairmeuse, 

A.x’the room which had been occupied by Lacheneur, 
“like Louis XVIII.,” he laughingly said, “in the cham- 
ber of Buonaparte. ” 

He was gay, chatty, and full of confidence in the 
future. 

“Ah! it is good to be in one’s own house!” he re- 
marked to his son again and again. 

But Martial responded only mechanically. His-^mind 
was occupied with thoughts of two women who had 
made a profound impression upon his by no means sus- 
ceptible heart that day. He was thinking of those two 
young girls, so utterly unlike 
Blanche de Courtornieu— Marie- Anne Lacheneur. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

Only those who, in the bright springtime of life, liave 
loved, have been loved in return, and have suddenly seen 
an impassable gulf open between them and happiness, 
can realize Maurice d’Escorval’s disappointment. 

All the dreams of his life, all his future plans, were 
based upon his love for Marie- Anne. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


73 


It this love failed him, the enchanted castle which 
hope had erected would crumble and fall, burying him 
in the ruins. 

Without Marie- Anne he saw neither ‘aim nor motive ‘n 
his existence. Still he did not suffer himself to be de- 
luded by false hopes. Although, at first, his appointed 
meeting with Marie- Anne on the following day seemed 
salvation itself, on reflection, he was forced to admit 
that this interview would change nothing, since every- 
thing depended upon the will of another party — the will 

<jT' f 

of M. Lacheneur. ^ . 

The remainder of the day he passed in mournful silence. 
The dinner hour came ; he took his seat at the table, but 
it was impossible for him to swallow a morsel, and he 
soon requested his parents’ permission to withdraw. 

M. d’Escorval and the baroness exchanged a sorrow- 
ful glance, but did not allow themselves to offer any 
comment. 

They respected his grief. They knew that his w^as 
one of those sorrows wdiich are only aggravated by any 
attempt at consolation. 

“Poor Maurice!” murmured Mme. d’Escorval, as soon 
as her son had left the room. And, as her husband made 
no reply: “Perhaps,” she added, hesitatingly, “perhaps 
it will not be prudent for us to leave him too entirely to 
the dictates of his despair.” 

The baron shuddered. He divined only too well the 
terrible apprehensions of his wife. 

“We have nothing to fear,” he replied quickly: “I 
heard Marie- Anne promise to meet Maurice to-morrow 
in the grove on the Reche. ’ ’ 

The anxious mother breathed more freely. Her blood 
had frozen with horror at the thought that her son 


74 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


might, perhaps, be contemplating suicide ; but she was 
a mother, and her husband’s assurances did not satisfy 
her. 

She hastily ascended the stairs leading to her son’s 
room, softly opened the door, and looked in. He was so 
engrossed in his gloomy reverie that he had heard noth- 
ing, and did not even suspect the presence of the anxious 
mother who was watching over him. 

He was sitting at the window, his elbows resting upon 
the sill, his head supported by his bands, looking out 
into the night. 

There was no moon, but the night was clear, and over 
beyond the light fog that indicated the course of the 
Oiselle, one could discern the imposing mass of the 
Chateau de Sairmeuse, with its towers and fanciful tur- 
rets. 

More than once he had sat thus silently gazing at this 
cliateau, which sheltered what was dearest and most 
precious in all the world to him. 

From his windows he could see those of the room'oc- 
“cupied by Marie- Anne ; and his heart always quickened 
its throbbing when he saw them illuminated. 

“She is there,’’ he thought, “in her virgin chamber. 
She is kneeling to say her prayers. She murmurs my 
name after that of her father, imploring God’s blessing 
upon us both.’’ 

But this evening he was not waiting for a light to 
gleam through the panes of that dear window. 

Marie- Anne was no longer at Sairmeuse — she had been 
driven away. ^ 

Where was she now? She, accustomed to all the 
luxury that wealth could procure, no longer had any 
home except a poor thatch-covered hovel, whose walls 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


75 


were not even whitewashed, whose only floor was the 
earth itself, dusty as the public highway in summer, 
frozen or muddy in winter. 

She was reduced to the necessity of occupying herself 
the humble abode she, in her charitable heart, had in- 
tended as an asylum for one of her pensioners. 

What was she doing now ? Doubtless she was weeping. 

At this thought poor Maurice was heartbroken. 

What was his surprise, a little after midnight, to see 
the chateau brilliantly illuminated. 

The duke and his son had repaired to the chateau after 
the banquet given by the Marquis de Courtornieu was 
over ; and, before going to bed, they made a tour of in- 
spection through this magnificent abode in which their 
ancestors had lived. They, therefore, might be said to 
have taken possession of the mansion whose threshold 
M. de Sairmeuse had not crossed for twenty-two years, 
and which Martial had never seen. 

Maurice saw the lights leap from story to story, from 
casement to casement, until at last even the windows of 
Marie- Anne’s room were illuminated. At this sight, the 
unhappy youth could not restrain a cry of rage. 

These men, these strangers, dared enter this virgin 
bower which he, even in thought, scarcely dared to 
penetrate. 

They tramped carelessly over the delicate carpet with 
their heavy boots. Maurice trembled in thinking of the 
liberties which they, in their insolent familiarity, might 
venture upon. He fancied he could see them examining 
and handling the thousand pretty trifles with which young 
girls love to surround themselves, they opened the presses, 
perhaps they were reading an unfinished letter lying 
upon the writing-desk. 


76 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Never until this evening had Maurice supposed he could 
hate another as he hated these men. 

At last, in despair, he threw himself upon his bed and 
passed the remainder of the night in thinking over what 
he should say to Marie- Anne on the morrow, and in seek- 
ing some issue from this inextricable labyrinth. 

He rose before daybreak and wandered about the park 
like a soul in distress, fearing, yet longing for the hour 
that would decide his fate. Mme. d’Escorval was obliged 
to exert all her authority to make him take some nourish- 
ment. He had quite forgotten that he had passed twenty- 
four hours without eating. 

When eleven o’clock sounded he left the house. 

The lands of the Reche are situated on the other side 
of the Oiselle. Maurice, to reach his destination, was 
obliged to cross the river at a ferry only a short distance 
from his home. When he reached the river-bank he 
found six or seven peasants who were waiting to cross. 
Tliese people did not observe Maurice. They were talk- 
ing earnestly, and he listened. 

“It is certainly true,” said one of the men. “I heard 
it from Chanlouineau himself only last evening. He was 
wild with delight. ‘I invite you all to the wedding !’ he 
cried. ‘I am betrothed to M. Lacheneur’s daughter ; ths 
affair is decided.’ ’’ 

This astounding news positively stunned Maurice. He 
was actually unable to think or move. 

“Besides, he has been in love with her for a long time . 
Every one knows that. One had only to see his eyes 
when he^ met her — coals of fire were nothing to them. 
But while her father was so rich, he did not dare to 
speak. Now that the old man has met with these re- 
verses, he ventures to offer himself, and is accepted.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


77 


**An unfortunate thing for him,” remarked a little old 
man. 

“Why so?” 

“If M. Lacheneur is ruined, as they say — ” 

Tlie others laughed heartily. 

“Ruined— M. Lacheneur!” they exclaimed, in chorus. 
“How absurd ! He is richer than all of us together. Do 
you suppose that he has been stupid enough not to have 
laid anything aside during all these years? He has put 
this money, not in ground, as he pretends, but some- 
where else.” 

“You are saying what is untrue !” interrupted Maurice, 
indignantly, “M. Lacheneur left Sairmeuse as poor as he 
entered it.” 

On recognizing M. d’Escorval’s son, the peasants be- 
came extremely cautious. He questioned them, but 
could obtain only vague and unsatisfactory answers. A 
peasant, when interrogated, will never give a response 
which he thinks will be displeasing to his questioner ; he 
is afraid of compromising himself. 

The news he had heard, however, caused Maurice to 
hasten on still more rapidly after crossing the Giselle. 

“ Mar ie- Anne marry Chanlouineau !” he repeated; “it 
is impossible ! it is impossible I” 


CHAPTER IX. 

The Reche, literally translated the “Waste,” where 
Marie- Anne had promised to meet Maurice, owed its name 
to the rebellious and sterile character of the soil. 

Nature seemed to have laid her curse upon it. Noth- 


78 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ing would grow there. The ground was covered with 
stones, and the sandy soil defied all attempts to enrich it. 

A few stunted oaks rose here and there above the thorns 
and broom-plant. 

But on the lowlands of the Reche is a flourishing grove. 
The firs are straight and strong, for the floods of winter 
have deposited in some of the clefts of the rock sufficient 
soil to sustain them and the wild clematis and honey- 
suckle that cling to their branches. 

On reaching this grove, Maurice consulted his watch. 
It marked the hour of mid-day. He had supposed that 
he was late, but he was more than an hour in advance 
of the appointed time. 

He seated himself upon a high rock, from which he 
could survey the entire Reche, and waited. 

The day was magnificent ; the air intensely hot. Tlie 
rays of the August sun fell with scorching violence upon 
the sandy soil, and withered the few plants which had 
sprung up since the last rain. 

The stillness was profound, almost terrible. Not a 
sound broke the silence, not even the buzzing of an in- 
sect, nor a whisper of breeze in the trees. All nature 
seemed sleeping. And on no side was there anything to 
remind one of life, motion, or mankind. 

This repose of nature, which contrasted so vividly with 
the tumult raging in his own heart, exerted a beneficial 
effect upon Maurice. These few moments of solitude 
afforded him an opportunity to regain his composure, 
to collect his thoughts, scattered by the storm of passion 
which had swept over his soul, as leaves are scattered by 
the fierce November gale. With sorrow comes experi- 
ence, and that cruel knowledge of life which teaches one 
to guard one’s self against one’s hopes. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


79 


It was not until he heard the conversation of these 
peasants that Maurice fully realized the horror of 
Lacheneur’s position. Suddenly precipitated from the 
social eminence which he had attained, he found, in 
the valley of humiliation into which he was cast, only 
hatred, distrust and scorn. Both factions despised and 
denied him. Traitor, cried one; thief, cried the other. 
He no longer held anj^ social status. He was the fallen 
man, the man who had been, and who was no more. 

Was not the excessive misery of such a position a suf- 
ficient explanation of the strangest and wildest resolu- 
tions? 

This thought made Maurice tremble. Connecting the 
stories of the peasants with the words addressed to Chan- 
louineau at Escorval, by M. Lacheneur, on the preced: 
ing evening, he arrived at the conclusion that this report 
of Marie- Anne’s approaching marriage to the young 
farmer was not so improbable as he had at first supposed. 

But why should M. Lacheneur give his daughter to an 
uncultured peasant? From mercenary motives? Cer- 
tainly not, since he had just refused an alliance of which 
he had been proud in his days of prosperity. Could it 
be in order to satisfy his wounded pride, then? Perhaps 
he did not wish it to be said that he owed anything to r. 
son-in-law. 

Maurice was exhausting all his ingenuity and penetra- 
tion in endeavoring to solve this mystery when, at last, 
on a foot-path which crosses the waste, a woman ap- 
peared — Marie-Anne. He rose, but fearing observation, 
did not venture to leave the shelter of the grove. 

Marie-Anne must have felt a similar fear, for she hur- 
ried on, casting anxious glances on every side as she 
ran. Maurice remarked, not without surprise, that she 


80 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


was bareheaded, and that she had neither shawl nor 
scarf about her shoulders. 

As she reached the edge of the wood, he sprang to- 
ward her, and catching her hand, raised it to his lips. 

But this hand, which she had so often yielded to him, 
was now gently withdrawn with so sad a gesture that he 
could not help feeling there was no hope. 

“I came, Maurice,” she began, “because I could not 
endure the thought of your anxiety. By doing so I have 
betrayed my father's confidence— he was obliged to leave 
home. I hastened here. And yet I promised him, only 
two hours ago, that I would never see you again. You 
hear me — never !” 

She spoke hurriedly, but Maurice was appalled by the 
firmness of her accent. 

Had he been less agitated, he would have seen what a 
terrible effort this semblance of calmness cost the young 
girl. He would have understood it from her pallor, from 
the contraction of her lips, from the redness of the eye- 
lids which she had vainly bathed with fresh water, and 
which betrayed the tears that had fallen during the night. 

“If I have come,” she continued, “it is only to tell 
you that, for your own sake, as well as for mine, there 
must not remain in the secret recesses of your heart even 
the slightest shadow of a hope. All is over; we are 
separated forever T Only weak natures revolt against a 
destiny which they cannot alter. Let us accept our fate 
uncomplainingly. I wished to see you once more, and 
to say this: Have courage, Maurice. Go away — leave 
Escorval — forget me.” 

“Forget you, Marie- Anne!” exclaimed the wretched 
young man, “forget you 1” 

His eyes met hers, and in a nusky voice he added ; 


MONSIEUR LBCOQ. 


SI 


“Will you, then, forget me?” 

“I am a woman, Maurice — ” 

But he interrupted her : 

“All! I did not expect this,” he said, despondently. 
“Poor fool that I was ! I believed that you would find 

a way to touch your father’s heart.” 

♦ 

She blushed slightly, hesitated, and said: “I have 
thrown myself at my father’s feet; he repulsed me.” 

Maurice was thunderstruck, but recovering himself : 

“It was because you did not kaow how to speak to 
him !” he exclaimed, in a passion of fury; “but I shall 
know — I will present such arguments that he will be 
forced to yield. What right has he to ruin my happi- 
ness with his caprices? I love you — by right of this love, 
you are mine — mine rather than his 1 I will make him 
understand this, you shall see. Where is he? Where 
can I find him?” 

Already he was starting to go, he knew not where. 
Marie- Anne caught him by the arm. 

“Remain,” she commanded, “remain! So you have 
failed to understand me, Maurice. Ah, well ! yon must 
know the truth. I am acquainted now with the reasons 
of my father’s refusal ; and though his decision should 
cost my life, I approve it. Do not go to find my father. 
If moved by your prayers, he gave his consent, I should 
have the courage to refuse mine !” 

Maurice was so beside himself that this reply did not 
enlighten him. Crazed with anger and despair, and with 
no remorse for the insult he addressed to this woman 
whom he loved so deeply, he exclaimed : 

“It is for Chanlouineau, then, that you are reserving 
your consent? He believes so since he goes about every- 
where saying that you will soon be his wife.” 


82 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Marie- Anne shuddered as if a knife had entered her 
very heart ; and yet there was more sorrow than anger 
in the glance she cast upon Maurice. 

“Must I stoop so low as to defend myself from such 
an imputation?” she asked, sadly. “Must 1 declare that 
if even I suspect such an arrangement between Chan- 
louineau and my father, I have not been consulted? 
Must I tell you that there are some sacrifices which are 
beyond the strength of poor human nature? Under- 
stand this ; I have found strength to renounce the man 
I love — I shall never be able to accept another in his 
place !” 

Maurice hung bis head, abashed by her earnest words, 
dazzled by the sublime expression of her face. 

Reason returned ; he realized the enormity of his sus- 
picions, and was horrified with himself for having dared 
to give utterance to them. 

“Oh! pardon!” he faltered, “pardon!” 

What did the niysterious causes of all these events 
which had so rapidly succeeded each other, or M. Lache- 
rteur’s secrets, or Marie- Anne’s reticence, matter to him 
now? 

He was seeking some chance of salvation; he believed 
that he had found it. 

“We must fly!” he exclaimed; “fly at once, without 
pausing to look back. Before night we shall have passed 
the frontier.” 

He sprang toward her with outstretched arms, as if 
to seize her and bear her away ; but she checked him by 
a single look. 

“Fly!” said she, reproachfully; “fly!— and is it you, 
Maurice, who counsels me thus? What! while misfort- 
une is crushing my poor father to the earth, shall I add 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


83 


despair and shame to his sorrows? His friends have de- 
serted him ; shall I, his daughter, also abandon him? Ah ! 
if I did that, I should be the vilest, the most cowardly 
of creatures ! If my father, yesterday, when I believed 
him the owner of Sairmeuse, had demanded the sacrifice 
to which I consented last evening, I might, perhaps, 
have resolved upon the extreme measure you have 
counseled. In broad daylight I might have left Sair- 
meuse on the arm of my lover. It is not the world that 
I fear ! But if one might consent to fly from the chateau 
of a rich and happy father, one cannot consent to desert 
the poor abode of a despairing and penniless parent. 
Leave me, Maurice, where honor holds me. It will not 
be difficult for me, who am the daughter of generations 
of peasants, to become a peasant. Go ! — I cannot endure 
more ! Go ! and remember that one cannot be utterly 
wretched if one’s conscience is clean, and one’s duty 
fulfiUedI” 

Maurice was about to reply, when a crackling of dry 
branches made him turn his head. 

Scarcely ten paces off, Martial de Sairmeuse was stand- 
ing motionless, leaning upon his gun. 


CHAPTER X. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse had slept little and poorly on 
the night following hisreturn, or his restoration, as he 
styled it. 

Inaccessible, as he pretended to be, to the emotions 
which agitated the common herd, the scenes of the day 
had greatly excited him. 


84 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He could not help reviewing them, although he made 
it a rule of his life never to reflect. 

While exposed to the sci-utiny of the peasants and of 
his acquaintances at the Chateau de Courtornieu, he felt 
that his honor required him to appear cold and indiffer- 
ent, but as soon as he had retired to the privacy of his 
own chamber, he gave free vent to his excessive joy. 

For his joy was intense, almost verging on delirium. 

Now he was forced to admit to himself the immense 
service Lacheneur had rendered him in restoring Sair- 
meuse. 

This poor man, to whom he had displayed the blackest 
ingratitude, this man, honest to heroism, whom he had 
treated as an unfaithful servant, had just relieved him 
of an anxiety which had poisoned his life. 

Lacheneur had just placed the Duke de Sairmeuse 
beyond the reach of a not probable, but very possible 
calamity, which he had dreaded for some time. 

If his secret anxiety had been made known, it would 
have created much merriment. 

“Nonsense!” people would have exclaimed, “every 
one knows that the Sairmeuse possesses property to the 
amount of at least eight or ten millions, in England.” 

This was true. Only these millions, which had ac- 
crued from the estate of the duchess and of Lord Hol- 
land, had not been bequeathed to the duke. 

He enjoyed absolute control of this enormous fortune ; 
he disposed of the capital and of the immense revenues 
to please himself ; but it all belonged to his son~to his 
only son. 

The duke possessed nothing— a pitiful income of twelve 
hundred francs, perhaps ; but, strictly speaking, not even 
the means of subsistence. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


^5 


Martial, certainly, had never said a word which would 
lead him to suspect that he had any intention of remov- 
ing his property from his father’s control ; but he might 
possibly utter this word. 

Had he not good reason to believe that sooner or later 
this fatal word would be uttered? 

And even at the thought of such a contingency he 
shuddered with horror. 

He saw himself reduced to a pension, a very handsome 
pension, undoubtedly, but still a fixed, immutable, regu- 
lar pension, by which he would be obliged to regulate 
his expenditures. He would be obliged to calculate, that 
two ends might meet — he, who had been accustomed to 
inexhaustible coffers. 

“And this will necessarily happen, sooner or later,” 
he thought. “If Martial should marry, or if he should 
become ambitious, or meet with evil counselors, that will 
be the end of my reign.” 

He watched and studied his son, as a jealous woman 
studies and watches the lover she mistrusts. He thought 
he read in his eyes many thoughts which were not there ; 
and according as he saw him, gay or sad, careless or pre- 
occupied, he was reassured or still more alarmed. 

Sometimes he imagined the worst. “If I should quar- 
rel with Martial,” he thought, “he would take possession 
of his entire fortune, and I should be left without bread. ” 

These torturing apprehensibns were, to a man who 
judged the sentiments of others -by his own, a terrible 
chastisement. 

Ah ! no one would have wished his existence at the 
price which he paid for it— not even the poor wretches 
who envied his lot and his apparent happiness, as they 
saw him roll by in his magnificent carriage. 


86 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


There were days when he almost went mad. 

“What am I?” he sxclaimed, foaming with rage. “A 
mere plaything in the hands of a child. My son owns 
me. If I displease him, he casts me aside. Yes, he can 
dismiss me as he would a lackey. If I enjoy his fortune, 
it is only because he is willing that I should do so. I 
owe my very existence, as well as my luxuries, to his 
charity. But a moment of anger, even a caprice, may 
deprive me of everything.” 

With such ideas in his brain, the duke could not love 
his son. 

He hated him. 

He passionately envied him all the advantages he pos- 
sessed — his youth, his millions, his physical beauty, and 
his talents, which were really of a superior order. 

We meet every day mothers who are jealous of their 
daughters, and some fathers. 

This was one of those cases. 

The duke, however, showed no sign -of mental dis- 
quietude ; and if Martial had possessed less penetration, 
he would have believed that his father adored him. But 
if he had detected the duke’s secret, he did not allow him 
to discover it, nor did he abuse his power. 

Their manner toward each other was perfect. The 
duke was kind even to weakness ; Martial full of defer- 
ence. But their relations, were not tliose of father and 
son. One was in constant fear of displeasing the other ; 
the other was a little too sure of his power. They lived 
on a footing of perfect equality, like two companions of 
the same age. 

From this trying situation Lacheneur had rescued the 
duke. 

The owner of SairmeusOj an estate worth more than a 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


87 


million, the duke was free from his son’s tyranny;. he 
had recovered his liberty. 

What brilliant projects flitted through his brain that 
night ! 

He beheld himself the richest landowner in that local- 
ity ; he was the chosen friend of the king ; had he not 
a right to aspire to anything? 

Such a prospect enchanted him. He felt twenty years 
younger— the twenty years that had been passed in exile. 

So, rising before nine o’clock, he went to awaken 
Martial. 

On returning from dining with the Marquis de Cour- 
tornieu, the evening before, the duke had gone through 
the chateau ; but his hasty examination by candle light 
had not satisfied his curiosity. He wished to see it in 
detail by daylight. 

Followed by his son, he explored one after another of 
the rooms of the princely abode ; and, with every step, 
the recollections of his infancy crowded upon liim. 

Lacheneur had respected everything. The duke found 
articles as old as himself, religiously preserved, occupj’’- 
ing the old familiar places from which they had never 
been removed. When his inspection was concluded : 

‘'Decidedly, marquis,” he exclaimed, ‘‘this Lacheneur 
was not such a rascal as I supposed. I am disposed to 
forgive him a great deal, on account of the care which 
he has taken of our house in our absence.” 

Martial seemed engrossed in thought. 

‘‘I think, monsieur,” he said, at last, ‘‘that we should 
testify our gratitude to this man by paying him a large 
indemnity.” 

This word excited the duke’s anger. 

‘‘An indemnity !” he exclaimed. ‘‘Are you mad, mar- 


88 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


quis? Think of the income that he has received from 
my estate. Have you forgotten the calculation made for 
us last evening by the Chevalier de la Livandiere?” 

“The chevalier is a fool !’’ declared Martial, promptly. 
“He forgot that Lacheneur has trebled the value of Sair- 
meuse. I think that our family honor requires us to 
bestow upon this man an indemnity of at least one hun- 
dred thousand francs. This would, moreover, be a good 
stroke of policy in the present state of public sentiment, 
and his majesty would, I am sure, be much pleased.” 

“Stroke of policy” — “public sentiment” — “his maj- 
esty.” One might have obtained almost anything from 
M. de Sairmeuse by these arguments. 

“Heavenly powers !” he exclaimed, “a hundred thou- 
sand francs ! how you talk ! It is all very well for you, 
with your fortune ! Still, if you really think so — ” 

“Ah ! my dear sir, is not my fortune yours? Yes, such 
is really my opinion. So much so, indeed, that if you 
will allow me to do so, I will see Lacheneur myself, and 
arrange the matter in such a way that his pride will not 
be wounded. His is a devotion which it would be well 
to retain.” 

The duke opened his eyes to their widest extent. 

“Lacheneur ’s pride!” he murmured. “Devotion which 
it would be well to retain ! Why do you sing in this 
strain? Whence comes this extraordinary interest?” 

He paused, enlightened by a sudden recollection. 

“I understand!” he exclaimed; “I understand. He 
has a pretty daughter.” 

Martial smiled without replying. 

“Yes, pretty as a rose,” continued the duke : “but one 
hundred thousand francs ! Zounds ! That is a round sum 
to pay for such a whim. But, if you insist upon it — ” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


89 


Armed with this authorization, Martial, two hours 
later, started on his mission. 

The first peasant he met told him the way to the cot- 
tage which M. Lacheneur now occupied. 

“Follow' the river,” said the man, “and when you see 
a pine grove upon your left, cross it.” 

Martial was crossing it, when he heard the sound of 
voices. He approached, recognized Marie-Anne and 
Maurice d’Escorval, and, obeying an angry impulse, he 
paused. 


CHAPTER XI. 

During the decisive moments of life, when one’s entire 
future depends upon a word, or a gesture, twenty con- 
tradictory inspirations can traverse the mind in the time 
occupied by a flash of lightning. 

On the sudden apparition of the young Marquis de 
Sairmeuse, Maurice d’Escorval’s first thought was this : 

“How long has he been there? Has he been playing 
the spy? Has he been listening to us? What did he 
hear?’* 

His first impulse was to spring upon his enemy, to 
strike him in the face, and compel him to engage in a 
hand to hand struggle. 

The thought of Marie-Anne checked him. 

He reflected upon the possible, even probable results of 
a quarrel born of such circumstances. The combat which 
would ensue would cost this pure young girl her reputa- 
tion. Martial would talk of it ; and country people are 
pitiless. He saw this girl, whom he looked so devotedly 
upon, become the talk of the neighborhood ; saw the fin- 


90 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ger of scorn pointed at her, and possessed sufficient self- 
control to master his anger. All these reflections had 
occupied only half a second. 

Then, politely touching his hat, and stepping toward 
Martial : 

“You are a stranger, monsieur,” said he, in a voice 
which was frightfully altered, “and you have doubtless 
lost your way?” 

His words were ill-chosen, and defeated his prudent 
intentions. A curt “Mind your own business” would 
have been less wounding. He forgot that this word 
“stranger” was the most deadly insult that one could 
cast in the face of the former emigres, who had returned 
with the allied armies. 

Still the young marquis did not change his insolently 
nonchalant attitude. 

He touched the visor of his hunting cap with his fin- 
ger, and replied : “It is true — I have lost my way.” 

Agitated as Marie- Anne was, she could not fail to un- 
derstand that her presence was all that restrained the 
hatred of these two young men. Their attitude, the 
glance with which they measured each other, did not 
leave the shadow of a doubt on that score. If one was 
ready to spring upon the other, the other was on the 
alert, ready to defend himself. 

The silence of nearly a moment which followed was as 
threatening as the profound calm which precedes the 
storm. 

Martial was the first to break it. 

“A peasant’s directions are not generally remarkable 
for their clearness,” he said, lightly; “and for more 
than an hour I have been seeking the house to which M. 
Lacheneur has retired.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


91 


“Ah I” 

“I am sent to him by the Duke de Sairmeuse, my 
father.” 

Knowing what he did, Maurice supposed that these 
strangely rapacious individuals had some new demand 
to make. 

“I thought,” said he, “that all relations between M. 
Lacheneur and M. de Sairmeuse were broken off last 
evening at the house of the abbe.” 

This was said in the most provoking manner, and yet 
Martial never so much as frowned. He had sworn that 
he would remain calm, and he had strength enough to 
keep his word. “If these relations — as God forbid — have 
been broken off,” he replied, “believe, Monsieur d’Escor- 
val, it is no fault of ours.” 

“Then it is not as people say.” 

“What people? Who?” 

“The people here in the neighborhood.” 

“Ah I And what do these people say?” 

“The truth. That you have been guilty of an offense 
which a man of honor could never forgive nor forget!” 

The young marquis shook his head gravely. 

“You are quick to condemn, sir,” he said, coldly. 
“Permit me to hope that M. Lacheneur will be less 
severe than yourself ; and that his resentment — just, I 
confess, will vanish before” — he hesitated — “before a 
truthful explanation.” 

Such an expression, from the lips of this haughty 
young aristocrat! Was it possible? 

Martial profited by the effect he had produced to ad- 
vance toward Marie-Anne, and, addressing himself ex- 
clusively to her, seemed after that to ignore the presence 
of Maurice completely. 


92 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“For there has been a mistake —a misunderstanding, 
mademoiselle,” he continued. “Do not doubt it. The 
Sairmeuse are not ingrates. How could any one have 
supposed that we would intentionally give offense to a — 
devoted friend of our family, and that at a moment when 
he had rendered us a most signal service ! A true gen- 
tleman like my father, and a hero of probity like yours, 
cannot fail to esteem each other. I admit that, in the 
scene of yesterday, M. de Sairmeuse did not appear to 
advantage ; but the step he takes to-day proves his sin- 
cere regret.” 

Certainly this was not the cavalier tone which he had 
employed in addressing Marie- Anne, for the first time, 
on the square in front of the church. 

He had removed his hat, he remained half inclined 
before her, and he spoke in a tone of profound respect, 
as though it were a haughty duchess, and not the humble 
daughter of that “rascal” Lacheneur whom he was ad- 
dressing. 

Was it only a roue’s maneuver? Or had he also in- 
voluntarily submitted to the power of this beautiful girl? 
It was both ; and it would have been difficult for him to 
say where the voluntary ended, and where the involun- 
tary began. He continued : 

“My father is an old man who has suffered cruelly. 
Exile is hard to bear. But if sorrows and deceptions 
have imbittered his character, they have not changed 
his heart. His apparent imperiousness and arrogance 
conceal a kindness of heart which I have often seen de- 
generate into positive weakness. And— why should I 
not confess it? the Duke de Sairmeuse, with his white 
hair, still retains the illusions of a child. He refuses to 
believe that the wprld has progressed during the past 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


93 


twenty years. Moreover, people have deceived him by 
the most absurd fabrications. To speak plainly, even 
while we were in Montaignac, M. Lacheneur’s enemies 
succeeded in prejudicing my father against him.” 

One would have sworn that he was speaking the truth, 
so persuasive was his voice, so entirely did the expression 
of his face, his glance, and his gestures accord with his 
words. And Maurice, who felt — who was certain — that the 
young man was lying, impudently lying, was abashed 
by this scientific prevarication which is so universally 
practiced in good society, and of which he was entirely 
ignorant. 

“But what did the marquis desire here — and why this 
farce?” 

“Need I tell you, mademoiselle,” he resumed, “all that 
I suifered last evening in the little drawing-room at the 
presbytery? No, never in my whole life can I recollect 
such a cruel moment. I understood, and I did honor to 
M. Lacheneur’s heroism. Hearing of our arrival, he, 
without hesitation, without delay, hastened to volun- 
tarily surrender a princely fortune — and he was insulted. 
This excessive injustice horrified me. And if I did not 
openly protest against it — if I did not show my indigna- 
tion— it was only because contradiction drives my father 
to the verge of frenzy. And what good would it have 
done for me to protest? The filial love and piety which 
you displayed were far more powerful in their eliect 
than any words of mine would have been. You were 
scarcely out of the village before M. de Sairmeuse, al- 
ready ashamed of his injustice, said to me : T have been 
wrong, but I am an old man ; it is hard for me to decide 
to make the first advance ; you, marquis, go and find M. 
Lacheneur, and obtain his forgiveness.’ ” 


94 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Marie- Anne, redder than a peon 3 % and terribly eml>6ir- 
rassed, lowered her eyes. 

“I thank you, monsieur,” she faltered, “in the name 
of my father—” 

“Oh! do not thank me,” interrupted Martial, earnest- 
ly; “it will be my duty, on the contrary, to render yoia 
thanks, if you can induce M. Lacheneur to accept tha 
reparation which^is due him— and he will accept it, if 
you will only condescend to plead our cause. Who 
could resist your sweet voice, your beautiful, beseech- 
ing eyes?” 

However inexperienced Maurice might be, he coul’d 
no longer fail to comprehend Martial’s intentions. This 
man, whom he mortally hated already, dared to speak of 
love to Marie- Anne, and before him, Maurice. In other 
words, the marquis, not content with having ignored 
and insulted him, presumed to take an insolent advan- 
tage of his supposed simplicity. The certainty of this in- 
sult sent all his blood in a boiling torrent to his brain. 

He seized Martial by the arm, and with irresistible 
power whirled him twice around, then threw him more 
than ten feet, exclaiming : 

“This last is too much. Marquise de Sairmeuse I” 

Maurice’s attitude was so threatening that Martial fully 
expected another attack. The violence of the shock had 
thrown him down upon one knee; without rising, he 
lifted his gun, ready to take aim. 

It was not from anything like cowardice on the part 
of the Marquis de Sairmeuse that he decided to fire upon 
an unarmed foe ; but the affront which he had received 
was so deadly and so ignoble in his opinion that h( 
would have shot Maurice like a dog, rather than feel the 
weight of his finger upon him again. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


95 


This explosion of anger from Maurice, Marie-Anne 
had been expecting and hoping for every moment. 

She was even more inexperienced than her lover ; but 
she was a woman, and could not fail to understand the 
meaning of the young marquis. 

He was evidently “paying his court to her.” And 
with what intentions ! It was only toj easy to divine. 

Her agitation, while the marquis spoke in a more and 
more tender voice, changed first to stupor, then to indig- 
nation, as she realized his marvelous audacity. 

After that, how could she help blessing the violence 
which put an end to a situation which was so insulting 
for her, and so humiliating for Maurice? 

An ordinary woman would have thrown herself be- 
tween the two men, who were ready to kill each other. 
Marie-Anne did not move a muscle. 

Was it not the duty of Maurice to protect her when she 
was insulted? Who, then, if not he, should defend her 
from the insolent gallantry of this libertine? Whe would 
have blushed, she who was energy personified, to love a 
weak and pusillanimous man. 

But any intervention was unnecessary. Maurice com- 
prehended that this was one of those affronts which the 
person insulted must not seem to suspect, under penalty 
of giving the offending party the advantage. 

He felt that Marie-Anne must not be regarded as the 
cause of the quarrel. 

His instant recognition of the situation produced a 
powerful reaction in his mind; and he recovered, as 
if by magic, his coolness and the free exercise of his 
faculties. 

“Yes,” he resumed, defiantly, “this is hypocrisy 
enough. To dare to prate of reparation, after the in- 


96 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


suits that you and yours have inflicted, k adding inten* 
tional humiliation to insult— and I will not permit it.” 

Martial had thrown aside his gun ; he now rose and 
brushed the knee of his pantaloons, to which a few par- 
ticles of dust had adhered, with a phlegm whose secret 
he had learned in England. 

He was too discerning not to perceive that Maurice had 
disguised the tfte cause of his outburst of passion ; but 
what did it matter to him? Had he avowed it, the mar- 
quis would not have been displeased. 

Yet it was necessary to make some response, and to 
preserve the superiority which he imagined he had main- 
tained up to that time. 

“You will never know, monsieur,” he said, glancing 
alternately at his gun and at Marie- Anne, “all that you 
owe to Mdlle. Lacheneur. We shall meet again, I hope — ” 

“You have made that remark before,” Maurice inter- 
rupted, tauntingly. “Nothing is easier than to find me. 
The first peasant you meet will point out the house of 
Baron d’Escorval.” 

“E/i hien ! sir— I cannot promise that you will not see 
two of my friends. 

“Oh ! whenever it may please you 1“ 

“Certainly; but it would gratify me to knew by what 
right you make yourself the judge of M. Lacheneur’s 
honor, and take it upon yourself to defend what has not 
been attacked. Who has given you this right?” 

From Martial’s sneering tone, Maurice was certain 
that he had overheard, at least, a part of his conversa- 
tion with Marie- Anne. 

“My right,”. he replied, “is that of friendship. If ] 
tell you that your advances are unwelcome, it is because 
1 know that M. Lacheneur will accept nothing from you, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


97 


No, nothing, under whatever guise you may offer these 
alms which you tender merely to appease your own con- 
science. He will never forgive the affront, which is his 
honor and your shame. Ah I you thought to degrade 
him. Messieurs de Sairmeuse ! and you have lifted him 
far above your mock grandeur. He receive anything 
from you ! Go, learn that your millions will never give 
you a pleasure equal to the ineffable joy he will feel, 
when, seeing you roll by in your carriage, he says to 
himself : ‘Those people owe everything to me !’ ” 

His burning words vibrated with such intensity of 
feeling that Marie- Anne could not resist the impulse to 
press his hand; and this gesture was his revenge upon 
Martial, who turned pale with passion. 

“But I liave still another right,” continued Maurice. 
“My father yesterday had the honor of asking of M. 
Lacheneur the hand of his daughter — ” 

‘ And I refused it !” cried a terrible voice. 

Marie- Anne and both young men turned with the same 
movement of alarm and surprise. 

M. Lacheneur stood before them, and by his side was 
Chanlouineau, who surveyed the group with threatening 
eyes. 

“Yes, I refused it,” resumed M. Lacheneur, “and 1 
do not believe that my daughter will marry any one 
without my consent. What did you promise me this 
morning, Marie- Anne? Can it be you, you who grant 
a rendezvous to gallants in the forest? Return to the 
house, instantly — ” 

“But, father — ” 

“Return!” he repeated with an oath, “return. I 
command you.” 

She obeyed and departed, not without giving Maurice 


98 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


a look in which he read a farewell that she believed 
would be eternal. 

As soon as she had gone, perhaps twenty paces, M. 
Lacheneur, with folded arms, confronted Maurice. 

“As for you, Monsieur d’Escorval,” said he, rudely, 
“I hope that you will no longer undertake to prowl 
around my daughter — ” 

“I swear to you, monsieur — 

“Oh, no oaths, if you please. It is an evil action to 
endeavor to turn a young girl from her duty, which is 
obedience. You have broken forever all relations be- 
tween your family and mine.” 

The poor youth tried to excuse himself ; but M. Lache- 
neur interrupted him. 

“Enough ! enough !” said he, “go back to your home.” 

And as Maurice hesitated, he seized him by the collar 
and dragged him to the little footpath, leading through 
the grove. 

It was the work of scarcely ten seconds, and yet, he 
found time to whisper in the young man’s ear, in his 
formerly friendly tones: “Go, you little wretch ! do you 
wish to render all my precautions useless?” 

He watched Maurice as he disappeared, bewildered by 
the scene he had just witnessed, and stupefied by what 
he had just heard; and it was not until he saw that 
young D’Escorval was out of hea,ring that he turned to 
Ivlartial. 

“As I have had the honor of meeting you. Monsieur le 
Jdarquis,” said he, “I deem it my duty to inform you that 
Chupin and his sons are searching for you everywhere. 
It is at the instance of the duke, your father, who is 
anxious for you to repair at once to the Chateau de 
Courtornieu. ” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


99 


He turned to Chanlouineau, and added : “We will now 
proceed on our way.” 

But Martial detained him with a gesture. 

“I am much surprised to hear that they are seeking 
me,” said he. “M}’- father knows very well where he 
sent me — I was going to your house, monsieur, and at 
his request.” 

“To my house?” 

“To your house, yes, monsieur, to express our sincere 
regret at the scene which took place at the presbytery 
last evening.” 

And without waiting for any response, Martial, with 
wonderful cleverness and felicity of expression, began 
to repeat to the father the story which he had just re- 
lated to the daughter. 

According to his version, his father and himself were 
in despair. How could M. Lacheneur suppose them 
guilty of such black ingratitude? Why had he retired 
so precipitately? The Duke de Sairmeuse held at M. 
Lacheneur ’s disposal any amount which it might please 
him to mention — sixty, a hundred thousand francs, even 
more. 

But M. Lacheneur did not appear to be dazzled in the 
least ; and when Martial had concluded, he replied, re- 
spectfully but coldly, that he would consider the matter. 

This coldness amazed Chanlouineau; he did not con- 
ceal the fact when the marquis, after many earnest pro- 
testations, at last wended his way homeward. 

“We have misjudged these people,” he declared. 

But M. Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. 

“And so you are foolish enough to suppose that it was 
to me that he offered all that money?” 

' ‘Zounds I I have ears. ’ ’ 


100 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


"Ah, welll my poor boy, you must not believe all 
they hear, if you have. The truth is, that these large 
sums were intended to win the favor of my daughter. 
She has pleased this coxcomb of a marquis; and — he 
wishes to make her his mistress — ” 

Chanlouineau stopped short, with eyes flashing, and 
hands clinched. 

"Good Godl" he exclaimed, "prove that, and I am 
yours, body and soul — to do anything you desire !" 


CHAPTER XII. 

"No, never in my whole life have I met a woman who 
can compare with this Marie- Anne I What grace and 
what dignity 1 Ah ! her beauty is divine !" 

So Martial was thinking, while returning to Sairmeuse 
after his proposals to M. Lacheneur. 

At the risk of losing his way he took the shortest 
course, which led across the fields and over ditches, 
which he leaped with the aid of his gun. 

He found a pleasure, entirely novel and very delight- 
ful, in picturing Marie- Anne as he had just seen her, 
blushing and paling, about to swoon, then lifting her 
head haughtily in her pride and disdain. 

Who would have suspected that such indomitable 
energy, and such an impassioned soul, was hidden be- 
neath such girlish artlessness and apparent coldness? 
What an adorable expression illumined her face, what 
passion shone in those great black eyes when she looked 
at that little fool D’Escorvall What would not one 
give to be regarded thus, even for a moment? How 
could the boy help being crazy about her? 

He himself loved her, without being, as yet, willing 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


101 


to confess it. What other name could be given to this 
passion which had overpowered reason, and to the furi- 
ous desires which agitated him? 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “she shall be mine. Yes, she 
shall be mine — I will have her !” 

Consequently he began to study the strategic side of 
the undertaking which this resolution involved with the 
sagacity of one who had not been without an extended 
experience in such matters. 

His debut, he was forced to admit, had been neither 
fortunate nor adroit. Conveyed compliments and money 
had both been rejected. If Marie- Anne had heard his 
covert insinuations with evident liorror, M. Lacheneur 
had received, with even more than coldness, his advances 
and his offers of actual wealth. 

Moreover, he remembered Chanlouineau’s terrible eye. 

“How he measured me, that magnificent rustic!” he 
growled. “At a sign from Marie- Anne he would have 
crushed me like an egg-shell, without a thought of my 
ancestors. Ah ! does he also love her? There will be 
three rivals in that case.” 

But the more difficult and even perilous the undertak- 
ing seemed, the more his passions were inflamed. 

“My failures can be repaired,” he thought. “Occa- 
sions of meeting shall not be wanting. Will it not be 
necessary to hold frequent interviews with M. Laclieneur 
in effecting a formal transfer of Sairmeuse? I will win 
him over to my side. With the daughter my course is 
plain. Profiting by my unfortunate experience, I will, 
in the future, be as timid as I have been bold ; and she 
will be hard to please if she is not flattered by this tri- 
umph of her beauty. D’Escorval remains to be disposed 
of— “ 


102 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


But this was the point upon which Martial was most 
exercised. 

He had, it is true, seen this rival rudely dismissed by 
M. Lacheneur; and yet the anger of the latter had 
seemed to him too great to be absolutely real. 

He suspected a comedy, but for whose benefit? For 
his, or for Chanlouineau’s? And yet, what could pos- 
sibly be the motive? 

“And yet,” he reflected, “my hands are tied; and I 
cannot call this little D’Escorval to account for his inso- 
lence. To swallow such an affront in silence — is hard. 
Still, he is brave, there is no denying that ; perhaps I can 
find some other way to provoke his anger. But even 
then, what could I do? If I harmed a hair of his head, 
Marie- Anne would never forgive me. Ah ! I would give 
a handsome sum in exchange for some little device to 
send him out of the country.” 

Revolving in his mind these plans, whose frightful 
consequences he could neither calculate nor foresee. 
Martial was walking up the avenue leading to the cha- 
teau, when he heard hurried footsteps behind him. 

He turned, and seeing two men running after him and 
motioning him to stop, he paused. 

It was Chupin, accompanied by one of his sons. 

This old rascal had been enrolled among the servants 
charged with preparing Sairmeuse for the reception of 
the duke ; and he had already discovered the secret of 
making himself useful to his master, which was by 
seeming to be indispensable. 

“Ah, monsieur!” he cried, “we have been searching 
for you everywhere, my son and I. It was M. le Due — ” 

“Very well,” said Martial, dryly. “I am returning—” 

But Chupin was not sensitive ; and although he had 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


103 


not been very favorably received, he ventured to follow 
the marquis at a little distance, but sufficiently near to 
make himself heard. He also had his schemes ; for it 
was not long before he began a long recital of the calum- 
nies which had 'been spread about the neighborhood in 
regard to the Lacheneur affair. Why did he choose this 
subject in preference to any other? Did he suspect the 
young marquis’s passion for Marie- Anne? 

According to his report, Lacheneur — he no longer said 
“monsieur” — was unquestionably a rascal; the complete 
surrender of Sairmeuse was only a farce, as he must 
possess thousands, and hundreds of thousands of francs, 
since he was about to marry his daughter. 

If the scoundrel had felt only suspicions, they were 
changed into certainty by the eagerness with which 
Martial demanded: 

“How ! is Mdlle. Lacheneur to be married?” 

“‘Yes, monsieur.” 

“And to whom?” 

“To Chanlouineau, the fellow whom the peasants 
wished to kill yesterday upon the square, because he 
was disrespectful to the duke. He is an avaricious 
man; and if Marie-Anne does not bring him a good 
round sum as dowry, he will never marry her, no mat- 
ter how beautiful she may be.” 

“Are you sure of what you say?” 

“It is true. My eldest son heard from Chanlouineau 
and from Lacheneur that the >v'edding would take place 
within a month.” 

And turningto his son : “Is it not true, boy?” 

“Yes,” promptly replied the youth, who had heard 
nothing of the kind. 

Martial was silent, ashamed, perhaps, of allowing 


104 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


himself to listen to the gossip, but glad to have been 
informed of such an important circumstance. 

If Chupin was not telling a falsehood — and what rea- 
son could he have for doing so — it became evident that 
M. Lacheneur’s conduct concealed some great mystery. 
Why, without some potent motive, should he have re- 
fused to give his daughter to Maurice d’Escorval whom 
she loved, to bestow her upon a peasant? 

As he reached Sairmeuse, he was swearing that he 
would discover this motive. A strange scene awaited 
him. In the broad open space extending from the front 
of the chateau to the parterre lay a huge pile of all kinds 
of clothing, linen, plate and furniture. One might have 
supposed that the occupants of the chateau were moving. 
A half dozen men were running to and fro, and stand- 
ing in the center of the rubbish was the Duke de Sair- 
meuse, giving orders. 

Martial did not understand the whole meaning of the 
scene at first. He went to his father, and after saluting 
him respectfully, inquired : “What is all this?” 

M. de Sairmeuse laughed heartily. 

“What, can you not guess?” he replied. “It is very 
simple, however. When the lawful master, on his re- 
turn, sleeps beneath the bed-coverings of the usurper, it 
is delightful the first night, not so pleasant on the second. 
Everything here reminds me too forcibly of Monsieur 
Lacheneur. It seems to me that I am in his house; and 
tlie thought is unendurable. So I have had them collect 
everything belonging to him and to his daughter— every- 
thing, in fact, which did not belong to the chateau in 
former years. The servants will put it all into a cart 
and carry it to him.” 

The young marquis gave fervent thanks to Heaven 


MONSIEUR LECOQt 


105 


that he had arrived before it was too late. Had his 
father’s project been executed, he would have been 
obliged to bid farewell to all his hopes. 

“You surely will not do this, Monsieur le Due?” said 
he, earnestly. 

“And why, pray? Who will prevent me from doing 
it?” 

“No one, most assuredly. But you will decide, on re- 
flection, that a man who has not conducted himself too 
badly has a right to some consideration.” 

The duke seemed greatly astonished. 

“Consideration!” he exclaimed. “This rascal has a 
right to some consideration! Well, this is one of the 
poorest of jokes. What! I give him — that is to say — 
you give him a hundred thousand francs, and that will 
not content him ! He is entitled to consideration ! You, 
who are* after the daughter, may give it to him if you 
like, but 1 shall do as I like !” 

“Very well; but, monsieur, I would think twice, if I 
were in your place. Lacheneur has surrendered Sair- 
nieuse. That is all very well : but how can you authen- 
ticate your claim to the property? What would you do 
if, in case you imprudently irritated him, he should 
change his mind? What would become of your right, 
to the estate?” 

M. Sairmeuse actually turned green. 

“Zounds!” he exclaimed, “Iliad not thought of that. 
Here, you fellows, take all these things back again, and 
that quickly !” 

And as they were obeying his order: “Now,” he re- 
marked, ‘ ‘let us hasten to Courtornieu. They have already 
sent for us twice. It must be business of the utmost im- 
portance which demands our attention.” 


106 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The Chateau de Courtornieu is, next to Sairmeuse, the 
most magnificent habitation in the arrondissement of 
Montaignac. 

The approach to the castle was by a long and narrow 
road, badly paved. When the carriage containing Mar- 
tial and his father turned from the public highway into 
this rough road, the jolting aroused the duke from the 
profound reverie into which he had fallen on leaving 
Sairmeuse. 

The marquis thought that he had caused this unusual 
fit of abstraction. 

“It is the result of my adroit maneuver,” he said to 
himself, not without secret satisfaction. “Until the 
restitution of Sairmeuse is legalized, I can ipake my 
father do anything I wish ; yes, anything. And if it is 
necessary, he will even invite Lacheneur and Marie-Anne 
to his table.” 

He was mistaken. The duke had already forgotten 
the affair ; his most vivid impressions lasted no longer 
than an indentation in the sand. 

He lowered the glass in the front of the carriage, and, 
after ordering the coachman to drive more slowly : 

“Now,” said he to his son, “let us talk a little. Are 
you really in love with that little Lacheneur?” 

Martial could not repress a start. “Oh ! in love,” said 
he, lightly, “that would perhaps be saying too much. 
Let me say that she has taken my fancy, that will be 
sufficient. ’ ’ 

The duke regarded his son with a bantering air. 

“Really, you delight me!” he exclaimed. “I feared 
that this love affair might derange, at least for the mo- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


109 


for you before beginning our deliberations upon a very 
grave, and also very delicate matter. We are thinking 
of addressing a petition to his majesty. The nobility, 
who have suffered so much during the Revolution, have 
a right to expect ample compensation.- Our neighbors, 
to the number of sixteen, are now assembled in my cabi- 
net, transformed for the time into a council chamber.” 

Martial shuddered at the thought of all the ridiculous 
and tiresome conversation he would probably be obliged 
to hear ; and his father’s recommendation occurred to 
him. 

“Shall we not have the honor of paying our respects 
to Mdlle. de Courtornieu?” 

“My daughter must be in the drawing-room with our 
cousin,” replied the marquis, in an indifferent tone; “at 
least, if she is not in the garden.” 

This might be construed into, “Go and look for her, if 
you choose. ’ ’ At least Martial understood it in that way ; 
and when they entered the hall, he allowed his father 
and the marquis to go upstairs without him. 

A servant opened the door of the drawing-room for 
him— but it was empty. 

‘ ‘Very well, ” said he ; “I know my way to the garden. ” 

But he explored it in vain ; no one was to be found. 

He decided to return to the house and march bravely 
into the presence of the dreaded enemy. He had turned 
to retrace his steps when, through the foliage of a bower 
of jasmine, bethought he could distinguish a white dress. 

He advanced softly, and his heart quickened its throb- 
bing when he saw that he was right. 

Mdlle. Blanche de Courtornieu was seated on a bench 
beside an old lady and was engaged in reading a letter 
in a low voice. 


110 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


She must have been greatly preoccupied, since she had 
not heard Martial’s footsteps approaching. 

He was only ten paces from her, so near that he could 
distinguish the shadow of her long eyelashes. 

He paused, holding his breath, in a delicious ecstasy. 

“Ah! how beautiful she is!’’ he thought. Beautiful? 
no. But pretty, yes; as pretty as heart could desire, 
with her great velvety blue eyes and her pouting lips. 
She was a blonde, but one of those dazzling and radiant 
blondes found only in the countries of the sun ; and from 
her hair, drawn high upon the top of her head, escaped 
a profusion of ravishing, glittering ringlets, which seemed 
almost to sparkle in the play of the light breeze. 

One might, perhaps, have wished her a trifle larger. 
But she had the winning charm of all delicate and mig- 
nonnes women ; and her figure was of exquisite round- 
ness, and her dimpled hands were those of an infant. 

Alas ! these attractive exteriors are often deceitful, as 
much and even more so, than the appearances of a man 
like the Marquis de Courtornieu. 

The apparently innocent and artless young girl pos- 
sessed the parched, hollow soul of an experienced 
woman of the world, or of an old courtier. She had 
been so petted at the convent, in the capacity of only 
daughter of a grand seigneur and millionaire ; she had 
been surrounded by so much adulation, that all her good 
qualities had been blighted in the bud by the poisonous 
breath of flattery. 

She was only nineteen ; and still it was impossible for 
any person to have been more susceptible to the charms 
of wealth and of satisfied ambition. She dreamed of a 
position at court as a school-girl dreams of a lover. 

If she had deigned to notice Martial— for she had re- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Ill 


marked him — it was only because her father had told her 
that this young man would lift his wife to the highest 
sphere of power. Thereupon she had uttered a “very 
well, we will see !” that would have changed an enam- 
ored suitor’s love into disgust. 

Martial advanced a few steps, and Mdlle. Blanche, on 
seeing him, sprang up with a pretty affectation of in- 
tense timidity. 

Bowing low before her, he said, gently and with pro- 
found deference : 

“M. de Courtornieu, mademoiselle, was so kind as to tell 
me where I might have the honor of finding you. I had 
not courage to brave those formidable discussions inside ; 
but — ’’ 

He pointed to the letter the young girl held in her 
liand, and added : “But I fear that I am de trop.” 

“Oh! not in the least. Monsieur le Marquis, although 
this letter which I have just been reading has, I confess, 
interested me deeply. It was written by a poor child in 
whom I have taken a great interest — whom I have sent 
for sometimes when I was lonely-Marie-Anne Lache- 
neur.” 

Accustomed from his infancy to the hypocrisy of 
drawing-rooms, the young marquis had taught his face 
not to betray his feelings. 

- He could have laughed gayly with anguish at his heart ; 
Jie could have preserved the sternest gTavity when in- 
wardly convulsed with merriment. 

And yet, this name of Marie-Anne upon the lips of 
Mdlle. de Courtornieu caused his glance to waver. 

“They know each other!” he thought. 

In an instant he was himself again ; but Mdlle. Blanche 
had perceived his momentary agitation. 


112 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What can it mean?” she wondered, much disturbed. 

Still, it was with the perfect assumption of innocence 
that she continued: “In fact, you must have seen her, 
this poor Marie-Anne, Monsieur le Marquis, since her 
father was the guardian of Sairmeuse?” 

“Yes, I have seen her, mademoiselle,” replied Martial, 
quietly. 

“Is she not remarkably beautiful? Her beauty is of 
an unusual type, it quite takes one by surprise.” 

A fool would have protested. The marquis was not 
guilty of this folly. 

“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said he. 

This apparent frankness disconcerted Mdlle. Blanche 
a trifle ; and it was with an air of hypocritical compas- 
sion that she murmured : 

“Poor girl! What will become of her? Here is her 
father, reduced to delving in the ground.” 

“Oh! you exaggerate, mademoiselle; my father will 
always preserve Lacheneur from anything of that kind.” 

“Of course -I might have known that — but where will 
he find a husband for Marie-Anne?” 

“One has been found, already. I understand that she 
is to marry a youth in the neighborhood, who has some 
property — a certain Chanlouineau.’’ 

The artless school-girl was more cunning than the 
marquis. She had satisfied herself that she had just 
grounds for her suspicions ; and she experienced a cer- 
tain anger on finding him so well informed in regard to 
everything that concerned Mdlle. Lacheneur. 

“And do you believe that this is the husband of whom 
she had dreamed? Ah, well 1 God grant that she may be 
happy ; for we were very fond of her, very — were we 
not, Aunt Medea?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


113 


Aunt Medea was the old lady seated beside Mdlle. 
Blanche. 

“Yes, very,” she replied. 

This aunt, or cousin, rather, was a poor relation whom 
M. de Courtornieu had sheltered, and who was forced to 
pay dearly for her bread; since Mdlle. Blanche com- 
pelled her to play the part of echo. 

“It grieves me to see these friendly relations, which 
were so dear to me, broken,” resumed Mdlle. de Courtor- 
nieu. “But listen to what Marie- Anne has written.” 

She drew from her belt, where she had placed it, Mdlle. 
Lacheneur’s letter, and read : 

“My dear Blanche — You know that the Duke de 
Sairmeuse has returned. The news fell upon us like a 
thunderbolt. My father and I had become too much 
accustomed to regard as our own the deposit which had 
been • intrusted to our fidelity; we have been punished 
for it. At last, we have done our duty, and now all is 
ended. She whom you have called your friend will be, 
hereafter, only a poor peasant girl, as her mother was 
before her.” 

The most subtle observer would have supposed that 
Mdlle. Blanche was experiencing the keenest emotion. 
One would have sworn that it was only by intense etfort 
that she succeeded in restraining her tears— that they 
were even trembling behind her long lashes. 

The truth was, that she was thinking only of discover- 
ing, upon Martial’s face, some indication of his feelings. 
But now that he was on guard, his features might have 
been marble for any sign of emotion they betrayed. 

So she continued : 

“I should utter an untruth if I said that I have not 


114 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


suffered on account of this sudden change. But I have 
courage ; I shall learn how to submit. I shall, I hope, 
have strength to forget, for I must forget ! The remem- 
brances of past felicity would render my present jnisery 
intolerable.” 

Mdlle. de Courtomieu suddenly folded up the letter. 

“You have heard it, monsieur,” said she. “Can you 
understand such pride as that? And they accuse us, 
daughters of the nobility, of being proud!” 

Martial made no response. He felt that his altered 
voice would betray him. How much more would he 
have been moved, if he had been, allowed to read the 
concluding lines. 

“One must live, my dear Blanche,” added Marie- Anne, 
“and I feel no false shame in asking you to aid me. I 
sew very nicely, as you know, and I could earn my live- 
lihood by embroidery if I knew more people. I will call 
to-day at Courtomieu to ask you to give me a list of 
ladies to whom I can present myself on your recommen- 
dation.” 

But Mdlle. de Courtomieu had taken good care not to 
allude to the touching request. She had read the letter 
to Martial as a test. She had not succeeded ; so much 
the worse. She rose and accepted his arm to return to 
the house. 

She seemed to have forgotten her friend, and she was 
chatting gayly. When they approached the chateau, 
she was intermpted by a sound of voices raised to the 
highest pitch. 

It was the address to the king which was agitating the 
council convened in M. de Courtornieu’s cabinet. 

Mdlle. Blanche paused. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


115 


“I am trespassing upon your kindness, monsieur. I 
am boring you with my silly chat, when you should 
undoubtedly be up there.” 

“Certainly not,” he replied, laughing. “What should 
I do there? The role of men of action does not begin 
until the orators have concluded. ” 

He spoke so energetically, in spite of his jesting tone, 
that Mdlle. de Courtornieu was fascinated. She saw be- 
fore her, she believed, a man who, as her father had 
said, would rise to the highest position in the political 
world. 

Unfortunately, her admiration was disturbed by a ring 
of the great bell that always announces visitors. 

She trembled, let go her hold on Martial’s arm, and 
said, very earnestly : 

“Ah, no matter. I wish very much to know what is 
going on up there. If I ask my father, he will laugh at 
my curiosity, while you, monsieur, if you are present at 
the conference, you will tell me all.” 

A wish thus expressed was a command. The marquis 
bowed and obeyed. 

“She dismisses me,” he said to himself as he descended 
the staircase, “nothing could be more evident; and that 
without much ceremony. Why the devil does she wish 
to get rid of me?” 

Why? Because a single peal of the bell announced a 
visitor for Mdlle. Blanche; because she was expecting 
a visit from her friend ; and because she wished at any 
cost to prevent a meeting between Martial and Marie- 
Anne. 

She did not love him, and yet an agony of jealousy 
was torturing her. Such was her nature. 

Her presentiments were realized. It was, indeed, 


116 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Mdlle. Laclieneur who was awaiting her in the drawing- 
room. 

The poor girl was paler than usual ; but nothing in her 
manner betrayed the frightful anguish she had suffered 
during the past two or three days. 

And her voice, in asking from lier former friend a list 
of “customers,” was as calm and as natural as in other 
days, when she was asking her to come and spend an 
afternoon at Sairmeuse. 

So, when the two girls embraced each other, their roles 
were reversed. 

It was Marie- Anne who had been crushed by misfort- 
une ; it was Mdlle. Blanche who wept. 

But, while writing a list of the names of persons in the 
neighborhood with whom she was acquainted, Mdlle. de 
Courtornieu did not neglect this favorable opportunity 
for verifying the suspicions which had been aroused by 
Martial’s momentary agitation. 

“It is inconceivable,” she remarked, to her friend, 
“that the Duke de Sairmeuse should allow you to be 
reduced to such an extremity.” 

Marie- Anne’s nature was so loyal that she did not wish 
an unjust accusation to rest even upon the man who had 
treated her father so cruelly. 

“The duke is not to blame,” she replied gently; “he 
offered us a very considerable sum, this morning, through 
his son. ’ ’ 

Mdlle. Blanche started as if a viper had stung her. 

“So you have seen the marquis, my dear Marie-Anne?” 

“Yes.” 

“Has he been to your house?” 

“He was going there, when he met me in the grove 
on the waste.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


117 


She blushed as she spoke ; she turned crimson at the 
thought of Martial’s impertinent gallantry. 

This girl who had just emerged from a convent was 
terribly experienced; but she misunderstood the cause 
of Marie- Anne’s confusion. She could dissimulate, how- 
ever, and when Marie- Anne went away, Mdlle. Blanche 
embraced her with every sign of the most ardent affec- 
tion. But she was almost suffocated with rage. 

“What!” she thought; “they have met but once, and 
yet they are so strongly impressed with each other ! Do 
they love each other already?” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

If Martial had faithfully reported to Mdlle. Blanche 
all that he heard in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s cabinet, 
he would probably have astonished her a little. 

He, himself, if he had sincerely confessed his impres- 
sions and his reflections, would have been obliged to 
admit that he was greatly amazed. 

But this unfortunate man who, in days to come, would 
be compelled to reproach himself bitterly for the excess 
of his fanaticism, refused to confess this truth even to 
himself. His life was to be spent in defending preju- 
dices which his own reason condemned. 

Forced by Mdlle. Blanche’s will into the midst of a 
stormy discussion, he was really disgusted with the 
ridiculous and intense greediness of M. de Courtor- 
nieu’s noble guests. 

Decorations, fortune, honors, power — they desired 
everything. 


118 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


They vrere satisfied that their pure devotion deserved 
the most munificent rewards. It was only the most 
modest who declared that he would be content with 
the epaulets of a lieutenant-general. 

Many were the recriminations, stinging words, and 
bitter reproaches. 

The Marquis de Courtornieu, who acted as president 
of the council, was nearly exhausted with exclaiming ; 

“Be calm, gentlemen, be calm! A little moderation, 
if you please !” 

“All these men are mad,” thought Martial, with diffi- 
culty restraining an intense desire to laugh; “they are 
insane enough to be placed in a mad-house.” 

But he was not obliged to render a report of the seance. 
The deliberations were soon fortunately interrupted by 
a summons to dinner. 

Mdlle. Blance, when the young marquis rejoined her, 
quite forgot to question him about the doings of the 
council. 

In fact, what did the hopes and plans of these people 
matter to her? 

She cared very little about them or about the people 
themselves, since they were below her father in rank, 
and most of them were not as rich. 

An absorbing thought— a thought of her future, and 
of her happiness, filled her mind to the exclusion of ail 
other subjects. 

The few moments that she had passed alone, after 
Marie- Anne’s departure, she had spent in grave reflec- 
tion. 

Martial’s mind and person pleased her. In him were 
combined all the qualiflcations which any ambitious 
woman would desire in a husband— and she decided that 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


119 


he should be her husband. Probably she would not have 
arrived at this conclusion so quickly had it not been for 
the feeling of jealousy aroused in her heart. But from 
the very moment that she could believe or suspect that 
another woman was likely to dispute the possession of 
IMartial with her, she desired him. 

From that moment she was completely controlled by 
one of those strange passions in which the heart has no 
part, but which take entire possession of the brain and 
lead to the worst of follies. 

Let the woman whose pulse has never quickened its 
beating under the influence of this counterfeit of love, 
cast the first stone. 

That she could be vanquished in this struggle for su- 
premacy ; that there could be any doubt of the result, 
were thoughts which never once entered the mind of 
Mdlle. Blanche. 

She had been told so often, it had been repeated again 
and again that the man whom she would choose must 
esteem himself fortunate above all others. She liad seen 
her father besieged by so many suitors for her hand. 

“Besides,” she thought, smiling proudly, as she sur- 
veyed her reflection in the large mirrors; “am I not as 
pretty as Marie- Anne !” 

“Far prettier!” murmured the voice of vanity ; “and 
you possess what your rival does not : birth, wit, the 
genius of coquetry !” 

She did, indeed, possess sufficient cleverness and pa- 
tience to assume and to sustain the character which 
seemed most likely to dazzle and to fascinate Martial. 

As to maintaining this character after marriage, if it 
did not please her to do so, that was another matter \ 

The result of all this was that during dinner Mdlle. 


120 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Blanche exercised all her powers of fascination upon 
the young marquis. 

She was so evidently desirous of pleasing him that 
several of the guests remarked it. 

Some were even shocked by such a breach of conven- 
tionality. But Blanche de Courtornieu could do as she 
chose; she was well aware of that. Was she not the 
richest heiress for miles and miles around? No slander 
can tarnish the brilliancy of a fortune of more than a 
million in hard cash. 

“Do you know that those two young people will have 
a joint income of between seven and eight hundred thou- 
sand francs?” said one old viscount to his neighbor. 

Martial yielded unresistingly to the charm of his posi- 
tion. 

How could he suspect unworthy motives in a young 
girl whose eyes were so pure, whose laugh rung out with 
the crystalline clearness of childhood ! 

Involuntarily he compared her with the grave and 
thoughtful Marie-Anne, and his imagination floated 
from one to the other, inflamed by the strangeness of 
the contrast. 

He occupied a seat beside Mdlle. Blanche at the table ; 
and they chatted gayly, amusing themselves at the ex- 
pense of the other guests, who were again conversing 
upon political matters, and whose enthusiasm waxed 
warmer and warmer as course succeeded course. 

Champagne was served with the dessert; and the 
company drank to the allies whose victorious bayonets 
had forced a passage for the king to return to Paris ; 
they drank to the English, to the Prussians, and to the 
Russians whose horses were trampling our crops under 
foot. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


121 


The name of D’Escorval, heard above the clink of 
the glasses, suddenly aroused Martial from his dream 
of enchantment. 

An old gentleman had just risen and proposed that 
active measures should be taken to rid the neighborhood 
of the Baron d’Escorval. 

“The presence of such a man dishonors our country,” 
said he. “He is a frantic Jacobin, and admitted to be 
dangerous, since M. Fouche has him upon his list of sus- 
pected persons ; and he is even now under the surveil- 
lance of the police.” 

This discourse could not have failed to arouse anxiety 
in M. d’Escorval’s breast, had he seen the ferocity ex- 
pressed on almost every face. 

Still no one spoke : hesitation could be read in every 
eye. 

Martial, too, had turned so white that Mdlle. Blanche 
remarked his pallor and thought he was ill. 

In fact, a terrible struggle was going on in the soul of 
the young marquis: a conflict between his honor and 
passion. 

Had he not longed, only a few hours before, to find 
some way of driving Maurice from the country ? 

Ah, well ! the opportunity he so ardently desired now 
presented itself. It was impossible to imagine a better 
one. If the proposed step was taken, the Baron d’Es- 
corval and his family would be forced to leave France 
forever. 

The company hesitated ; Martial saw it, and felt that 
a single word from him, for or against, would decide the 
matter. 

After a few moments of frightful uncertainty, honor 
triumphed. 


122 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He rose and declared that the proposed measure was 
bad — impolitic. 

“M. d’Escorval,” he remarked, “is one of those men 
who diffuse around them a perfume of honesty and jus- 
tice. Have the good sense to respect the consideration 
which is justly his.” 

As he had foreseen, his words decided the matter. The 
cold and haughty manner, which he knew so well how 
to assume, his few but incisive words, produced a great 
effect. 

“It would evidently be a great mistake I” was the 
general cry. 

Martial reseated himself; Mdlle. Blanche leaned toward 
him. 

“You have done well,” she murmured, “you know 
how to defend your friends.” 

“M. d’Escorval is not my friend,” replied Martial, in 
a voice which revealed the struggle through which he 
had passed. “The injustice of the proposed measure 
incensed me, that is all.” 

Mdlle. de Courtornicu was not to be deceived by an 
explanation like this. Still she added : 

“Then your conduct is all the more grand, monsieur.” 

But such was not the opinion of the Duke de Sair- 
meuse. On returning to the chateau, some hours later, 
he reproached his son for his intervention. 

“Why the devil did you meddle with the matter?” in- 
quired the duke. “I would not have liked to take upon 
myself the odium of the proposition, but since it had 
been made — ” 

“I was anxious to prevent such an act of useless folly.” 

“Useless folly I Zounds! marquis, you carry matters 
with a high hand. Do you think that this d— d baron 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


123 


adores you? What would you say if you heard that he 
was conspiring against us?” 

“I should answer with a shrug of the shoulders.” 

“You would ! Very well ; do me the favor to question 
Chupin.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

It was only two weeks since the Duke de Sairmeuse 
had returned to France ; he had not yet had time to 
shake the dust of exile from his feet, and already his 
imagination saw enemies on every side. 

He had been at Sairmeuse only two days, and yet he 
unhesitatingly accepted the venomous reports which 
Chupin poured into his ears. 

The suspicions which he was endeavoring to make 
Martial share were cruelly unjust. 

At the moment when the duke accused the baron of 
conspiring against the house of Sairmeuse, that unfortu- 
nate man was weeping at the bedside of his son, who 
was, he believed, at the point of death. 

Maurice was indeed dangerously ill. 

His excessively nervous organization had succumbed 
before the rude assaults of destiny. 

When, in obedience to M. Lacheneur’s imperative 
order, he left the grove on the Reche, he lost the power 
of reflecting calmly and deliberately upon the situation. 

Marie-Anne’s incomprehensible obstinacy, the insults 
he had received from the marquis, and Lacheneur’s 
feigned anger were mingled in inextricable confusion, 
forming one immense, intolerable misfortune, too crush- 
ing for his powers of resistance. 


124 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The peasants who met him on his homeward way were 
struck by his singular demeanor, and felt convinced that 
some great catastrophe had just befallen the^ouse of the 
Baron d’Escorval. 

Some bowed ; others spoke to him, but he did not see 
or hear them. 

Force of habit — that physical memory which mounts 
guard when the mind is far away — brought him back to 
his home. 

His features were so distorted with suffering that Mme. 
d’Escorval, on seeing him, was seized with a most sinis- 
ter presentiment, and dared not address him. 

He spoke first. 

*'A11 is over 1” he said, hoarsely, “but do not be wor- 
ried, mother; I have some courage, as you shall see.” 

He did, in fact, seat himself at the table with a reso- 
lute air. He ate even more than usual ; and his father 
noticed, without alluding to it, that he drank much more 
wine than usual. 

He was very pale, his eyes glittered, his gestures were 
excited, and his voice was husky. He talked a great 
deal, and even jested. 

“Why will he not weep?” thought Mme. d’Escorval; 
“then I should not be so much alarmed, and I could try 
to comfort him.” 

This was Maurice’s last effort. When dinner was over 
he went to his room, and when his mother, who had 
gone again and again to listen at his door, finally de- 
cided to enter his chamber, she found him lying upon 
the bed, muttering incoherently. 

She approached him. He did not appear to recognize 
or even to see her. She spoke to him. He did not seem 
to hear. His face was scarlet, his lips were parched. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


125 


She took his hand; it was burning; and still he was 
shivering, and his teeth were chattering as if with cold. 

A mist swam before the eyes of the poor woman ; she 
feared she was about to faint ; but, summoning all her 
strength, she conquered her weakness, and dragging 
herself to the staircase, she cried: 

“Help ! help ! My son is dying 

With a bound M. d’Escorval reached his son’s cham- 
ber, looked at him and dashed out again, summoned a 
servant, and ordered him to gallop to Montaignac and 
bring a physician without a moment’s delay. 

There was, indeed, a doctor at Sairmeuse, but he was 
the most stupid of men — a former surgeon in the army, 
who had been dismissed for incompetency. The peasants 
shunned him as they would the plague ; and in case of 
sickness always sent for the cure. M. d’Escorval fol- 
lowed their example, knowing that the physician from 
Montaignac could not arrive imtil nearly morning. 

Abbe Midon had never frequented the medical schools, 
but since he had been a priest the poor so often asked ad- 
vice of him that he had applied himself to the study of 
medicine, and, aided by experience, he had acquired a 
knowledge of the art which would have won him a 
diploma from the faculty anywhere. 

At whatever hour of the day or night parishioners 
came to ask his assistauce, he was always ready— his 
only answer : “Let us go at once.” 

And when the people of the neighborhood met him on 
the road with his little box of medicine slung over his 
shoulder, they took off their hats respectfully and stood 
aside to let him pass. Those who did not respect the 
priest honored the man. 

For M. d’Escorval, above all others, Abbe Midon 


126 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


would make haste. The baron was his friend ; and a 
terrible apprehension seized him when he saw Mme. 
d’Escorval at the gate watching for him. By the way 
in which she rushed to meet him, he thought she was 
about to announce some irreparable misfortuiie.' But, 
no— she took his hand, and, without uttering a word, she 
JLed him to her son’s chamber. 

The condition of the poor youth was really very criti- 
cal ; the abbe perceived this at a glance, but it was not 
hopeless. 

“We will get him out of this,” he said, with a smile 
that reawakened hope. 

And, with the coolness of an old practitioner, he bled 
him freely, and ordered applications of ice to his head. 

In a momenUall the household were busied in fulfilling 
the cure’s ordei-s. He took advantage of the opportunity 
to draw the baron aside in the embrasure' of a window. 

“What has happened?” he asked. 

“A disappointment in love,” M. d’Escorval replied, 
with a despairing gesture. “ M. Lacheneur has refused 
the hand of his daughter, which I asked in behalf of my 
son. Maurice was to have seen Marie-Anne to-day. 
What passed between them I do not know. The result 
you see.” 

The baroness re-entered the room, and the two men 
said no more. A truly funereal silence pervaded the 
apartment, broken only by the moans of Maurice. 

His excitement instead of abating had increased in 
violence. Delirium peopled' his brain with phantoms; 
and the names of Marie-Anne, Martial de Sairmeuse, 
and Chanlouineau dropped so incoherently from his lips 
that it was impossible to read his thoughts. 

How long that night seemed to M. d’Escorval and his 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


127 


wife, those only know who have counted eaclT second 
beside the sick-bed of some loved one. 

Certainly their confidence in the companion in their 
vigil was great ; but he was not a regular physician like 
tht , 2 ^her, the one whose coming they awaited. 

Just as the light of morning made the candles turn 
pale, they heard the furious gallop of a horse, and soon 
the doctor from Montaignac entered. 

He examined Maurice carefully, and after a short con- 
ference with the priest : 

“I see no immediate danger,” he declared. “All that 
can be done has been done. The malady must be allowed 
* to take its course. I will return. ” 

1^ He did return the next day, and many days after, for 
it was not until a week had passed that Maurice was 
declared out of danger. 

Then he confided to his father all that had taken place 
in the grove on the Reche. The slightest detail of the 
' scene had engraved itself indelibly upon his memory. 
When the recital was ended : 

“Are you quite sure,” asked his father, “that you cor- 
rectly understood Marie- Anne’s reply? Did she tell you 
that if her father gave his consent to your marriage, she 
would refuse hers?” 

“Those were her very words.” 

“And still she loves you?” 

“I am sure of it.” 

“You were not mistaken in M. Lacheneur’s tone when 
he said to you : ‘Go, you little wretch ! do you wish to 
render all my precautions useless?’ ” 

“No.” 

M. d’Escorval sat for a moment in silence. 

“This passes comprehension,” he murmured, at last. 


128 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


And so low that his son could not hear him, he added : 
“I will see Lacheneur to-morrow; this mystery must 
be explained.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge 
was situated on a hill overlooking the water. 

It was, as he had said, a small and humble dwelling, 
but it was rather less miserable than the abodes of most 
of the peasants of the district. 

It was only one story high, but it was divided into 
three rooms, and the roof was covered with thatch. 

In front was a tiny garden, in which a few fruit trees, 
some withered cabbages, and a vine which covered the 
cottage to the roof, managed to find subsistence. 

This garden was a mere nothing, but even this slight 
conquest over the sterility of the soil had cost Lache- 
neur ’s deceased aunt almost unlimited courage and pa- 
.tience. 

For more than twenty years, the poor woman had 
never, for a single day, failed to throw upon her garden 
three or four basketfuls of richer soil, which she was 
obliged to bring more than half a league. 

It had been more than a year since she died ; but the 
little pathway which her patient feet had worn in the 
performance of this daily task was still distinctly visible. 

This was the path which M. d’Escorval, faithful to his 
resolution, took the following day, in the hope of wrest- 
ing from Marie- Anne’s father the secret of his inexplic- 
able conduct. 

He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he failed 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


129 


to notice the overpowering heat as he climbed the rough 
hillside in the full glare of the noonday sun. 

When he reached the summit, however, he paused to 
take breath ; and while wiping the perspiration from his 
brow, he turned to look back on the road which he had 
traversed. It was the first time he had visited the spot, 
and he was surprised at the extent of the landscape which 
stretched before him. 

From this point, which is the most elevated in the 
surrounding country, one can survey the entire valley 
of the Oiselle, and discern, in the distance, the redoubt- 
able citadel of Montaignac, built upon an almost inac- 
cessible rock. 

This last circumstance, which the baron was afterward 
doomed to recall in the midst of the most terrible scenes, 
did not strike him then. Lacheneur’s house absorbed 
all his attention. 

His imagination pictured vividly the sufferings of this 
unfortunate man, who, only a few days before, had re- 
linquished the splendors of the Chateau de Sairmeuse 
to repair to this wretched abode. 

He rapped at the door of the cottage. 

“Come in !“ said a voice. 

The baron lifted the latch and entered. 

The room was small, with whitewashed walls, but with 
no other floor than the ground ; no ceiling save the thatch 
that formed the roof. A bed, a table, and two wooden 
benches constituted the entire furniture. 

Seated upon a stool, near the tiny window, sat Marie- 
Anne, busily at work upon a piece of embroidery. 

She had abandoned her former mode of dress, and her 
costume was that worn by the peasant girls. 

When M. d'Escorval entered she rose, and for a mo- 


130 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


merit they remained silently standing, face to face, she 
apparently calm, he visibly agitated. 

He was looking at Marie- Anne ; and she seemed to him 
transfigured. She was much paler and considerably thin- 
ner ; but her beauty had a strange and touching charm 
-the sublime radiance of heroic resignation and of duty 
nobly fulfilled. Still, remembering his son, he was aston- 
ished to see this tranquillity. 

“You do not ask me for news of Maurice,” he said, 
reproachfully. 

“I had news of him this morning, monsieur, as I have 
had every day. I know that he is improving; and that, 
since day before yesterday, he has been allowed to take 
a little nourishment. ” 

“You have not forgotten him, then?” 

She trembled ; a faint blush suffused throat and fore- 
head, but it was in a calm voice that she replied : 

“Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to 
forget him, even if I wished to do so.” 

“And yet you have told him that you approve your 
father’s decision !” 

“I told him so, monsieur ; and I shall have the courage 
to repeat it.” 

“But you have made Maurice wretched, unhappy, 
child; he has almost died.” 

She raised her head proudly, sought M. d’Escorval’s 
eyes, and when she had found them: “Look at me, 
monsieur. Do you think that I, too, do not suffer?” 

M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but re- 
covering himself, he took Marie- Anne’s hand, and press- 
ing it affectionately, he said : 

“So Maurice loves you; you love him; you suffer; he 
has nearly died, and still you reject him I” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


131 


“It must be so, monsieur.” 

“You say this, my dear child— you say this, and you 
undoubtedly believe it. But I, who have sought to dis- 
cover the necessity of this immense sacrifice, have failed 
to find it. Explain to me, then, why this must be so, 
Marie-Anne. Who knows but you are frightened by 
chimeras which my experience can scatter with a 
breath? Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an 
old friend? It may be that your father, in his despair, 
has adopted extreme resolutions. Speak, let us combat 
them together. Lacheneur knows how devotedly I am 
attached to him. I will speak to him ; he will listen to 
we.” 

“I can tell you nothing, monsieur.” 

“What ! you are so cruel as to remain inflexible when 
a father entreats you on his knees — a father who says to 
you : *Marie-Anne, you hold in your hands the happiness, 
the life, the reason of my son — ” 

Tears glittered in Marie-Anne 's eyes, but she drew 
away her hand. 

“Ah ! it is you who are cruel, monsieur; it is you who 
are without pity. Do you not see what I suffer, and that 
it is impossible for me to endure further torture? No, I 
have nothing to tell you ; there is nothing you can say 
to my father. Why do you seek to impair my courage 
when I require it all to struggle against my despair? 
Maurice must forget me ; he must never see me again. 
This is ‘fate ; and he must not fight against it. It would 
be folly. We are parted forever. Beseech Maurice to 
leave the country, and if he refuses, you, who are his 
father, must command him to do so. And you, too, 
monsieur, in Heaven’s name, flee from us ! We shall 
bring misfortune upon you. Never return here; our 


132 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


house is accursed. The fate that overshadows us will 
ruin you also. ” 

She spoke almost wildly. Her voice was so loud that 
it penetrated the adjoining room. 

The communicating door opened, and M. Lacheneur 
appeared upon the threshold. 

At the sight of M. d’Escorval he uttered an oath. But 
there was more sorrow and anxiety than anger in his 
manner, as he said ; “You, monsieur, you here I” 

The consternation into which Marie- Anne’s words had 
thrown M. d’Escorval was so intense that it was with 
great difficulty he stammered out a response. 

“You have abandoned us entirely ; I was anxious about 
you. Have you forgotten our old friendship? I come 
to you—’’ 

The brow of the former master of Sairmeuse remained 
overcast. 

“Why did you not inform me of the honor that the 
baron had done me, Marie-Anne?’’ he said, sternly. 

She tried to speak, but could not ; and it was the baron 
who replied : 

“Why, I have but just come, my dear friend.” 

M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter, 
then at the baron. 

“What did they say to each other while they were 
alone?” he was evidently wondering. 

But, however great may have been his disquietude, he 
seemed to master it ; and it was with his old-time affabil- 
ity of manner that he invited M. d’Escorval to follow 
him into the adjoining room. 

“It is my reception-room and my cabinet combined,” 
he said, smiling. 

This room, which was much larger than the first, was 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


133 


as scantily furnighed ; but it contained several piles of 
small books, and an infinite number of tiny packages. 

Two men were engaged in arranging and sorting these 
articles. One was Chanlouineau. 

M. d’Escorval did not remember that he had ever seen 
the other, who was a young man. * 

“This is my son Jean, monsieur,” said Lacheneur. 
“He has changed since you last saw him ten years ago.” 

It was true. It had been, at least, ten years since the 
baron had seen Lacheneur ’s son. How time flies I He 
had left him a boy ; he found him. a man. 

Jean was just twenty ; but his haggard features and 
his precocious beard made him appear much older. 

He was tall and well formed, and his face indicated 
more than average intelligence. 

Still he did not impress one favorably. His restless 
eyes were always evading yours ; and his smile betrayed 
an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to 
cunning. As his father presented him, he bowed pro- 
foundly ; but he was very evidently out of temper. 

M. Lacheneur resumed : 

“Having no longer the ’means to maintain Jean in 
Paris, I have made him return. My ruin will, perhaps, 
be a blessing to him. The air of great cities is not good 
for the son of a peasant. Fools that we are, we send 
them there to teach them to rise above their fathers. 
But they do nothing of the kind. They think only of 
degrading themselves.” 

“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait, 
at least, until we are alone !” 

“M. d’Escorval is not a stranger.” 

Chanlouineau evidently sided with the son, since he 
made repeated signs to M. Lacheneur to be silent. 


134 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Either he did not see them, or he pretended not to see 
them, for he continued : ^ 

“I must have wearied you, monsieur, by telling you 
again and again : • ‘I am pleased with my son. He has a 
commendable ambition; he is working faithfully; he 
- will succeed. ’ Ah ! I was a poor, foolish father ! The 
friend who carried Jean the order to return has enlight- 
ened me, to my sorrow. This model young man you see. 
here left the gaming-house only to run to public balls. 
He was in love with a wretched little ballet girl in some 
low theater; and to please this creature, he also went 
upon the stage, with his face painted red and white.” 

“To appear upon the stage is not a crime.” 

“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s father and to 
affect virtues which one does not possess ! Have I ever 
refused you money? No. Notwithstanding that, you 
have contracted debts everywhere, and you owe at least 
twenty thousand francs !” Jean liimg his head ; he was 
evidently angry, but he feared his father. 

“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated iJ. Lacheneur. 
“I had them a fortnight ago; now I have nothing. I 
can hope to obtain this sum only through the generosity 
of the Duke de Sairmeuse and his son.” 

These words from Lacheneur ’s lips astonished the 
baron. Lacheneur perceived it, and it was with every 
appearance of sincerity and good faith that he resumed : 

“Does what I say surprise you? I understand why. 
My anger at ftrst made me give utterance to all sorts of 
absurd threats. But I am calm now, and I realize my 
injustice. What could I expect the duke to do? To 
make me a present of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusk, 
I confess, but that is his way ; at heart he is the best of 
men.” 

A 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


135 


\ '‘Have you seen him again?” , 

“No ; but I have seen his son. I have even ^en with 
him to the chateau to designate the articles which I de- 
sire to keep. Oh ! he refused me nothing. Everything 
was placed at my disposal — everything. I selected what 
I wished — furniture, clothing, linen. It is all to be 
brought here; and I shall be quite a grand seigneur,” 

“Why not seek another house? This — ” 

“This pleases me, monsieur. Its situation suits me 
perfectly.” 

In fact, why should not the Sairmeuse have regretted 
their odious conduct? Was it impossible that Lache- 
neur, in spite of his indignation, should conclude to 
accept honorable reparation? Such were M. d'Escor- 
val’s reflection!. 

“To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too 
little,” continued Lacheneur. “He has shown us the 
most delicate attentions. . For example, having noticed 
how much Marie- Anne regrets the loss of her flowers, 
he has declared that he is going to send her plants to 
stock our small garden, and that they shall be renewed 
every month.” 

Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur overdid his 
part. This last remark was too much; it awakened a 
sinister suspicion in M. d’Escorval’s mind. 

“Good God!” he thought, “does this wretched man 
meditate some crime?” 

He glanced at Chanlouineau and his anxiety increased. 
On hearing the names of the marquis and of Marie- Anne, 
the robust farmer had turned livid. 

“It is decided,” said Lacheneur, with an air of the ut- 
most satisfaction, “that they will give me the ten thousand 
francs bequeathed to* me by Mdlle. Armande. Moreover, 


136 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


I am to fix upon such a sum as I consider a just recom- 
pense for my services. And that is not all ; they have 
offered me the position of manager at Sairmeuse ; and 
I was to be allowed to occupy the gamekeeper’s cottage, 
where I lived so long. But on reflection I refused this 
offer. After having enjoyed for so long a time a fortune 
which did not belong to me, I am anxious to amass a 
fortune of my own.” 

“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you 
intend to do?” 

“Not the least in the world. I am going to turn ped- 
dler.” 

M. d’Escorval could not believe his ears. 

“Peddler?” he repeated. 

“Yes, monsieur. Look, there is my pack in that 
corner.” 

“But this is absurd !” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “Peo- 
ple can scarcely earn their daily bread in this way !” 

“You are wrong, monsieur. I have considered the 
subject carefully ; the profits are thirty per cent. And 
besides, there will be three of us to sell goods, for I shall 
confide one pack to my son, and another to Chanloui- 
neau.” 

‘ ‘ What ! Chanlouineau ? ’ ’ 

“He has become my partner in the enterprise.” 

“And his farm — who will take care of that?” 

“He will employ day laborers.” 

And then, as if wishing to make M. d’Escorval under- 
stand that his visit had lasted quite long enough, Lache- 
neur began arranging the little packages which were 
destined to fill the pack of the traveling merchant. 

But the baron was not to be gotten rid of so easily, 
now that his suspicions had become almost a certainty. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


137 


“I must speak with you,” he said, bruskly. 

M. Lacheneur turned. “I am very busy,” he replied, 
with a very evident reluctance. 

‘‘I ask only five minutes. But if you have not the 
time to spare to-day, I will return to-morrow — day after 
to-morrow — and every day, until I can see you in private. ’ ’ 

Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to 
escape this interview, so, with the gesture of a man who 
resigns himself to a necessity, addressing his son and 
Chanlouineau, he said : 

‘‘Go outside for a few moments.” 

They obeyed, and as soon as the door had closed 
behind them'’, Lacheneur said : 

“I know very well, monsieur, the arguments you in- 
tend to advance ; and the reason of your coming. You 
come to ask me again for Marie-Anne. I know that my 
refusal has nearly killed Maurice. Believe me, I have 
suffered cruelly at the thought ; but my refusal is none 
the less in’evocable. There is no power in the world 
capable of changing my resolution. Do not ask my 
motives ; I shall not reveal them ; but rest assured that 
they are sufficient.” 

“Are we not your friends?” 

“You, monsieur 1” exclaimed Lacheneur, in tones of 
the most lively affection, “you ! Ah I you know it well ! 
You are the best, the only friends I have here below. I 
should be the basest and the most miserable of men if 
I did not guard the recollection of all your kindness 
until my eyes“close in death. Yes, you are my friends, 
yes, I am devoted to you— and it is for that very reason 
that I answer: No, no, never!” 

There could no longer be any doubt. M. d’Escorval 
seized Lacheneur ’s hands, and almost crushing them in 


138 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


his grasp : “Unfortunate man !” he exclaimed, hoarsely, 
“what do you intend to do? Of what terrible vengeance 
are you dreaming?” 

“I swear to you—” 

“Oh ! do not swear. You cannot deceive a man of my 
age and of my experience. I divine your intentions — 
you hate the Sairmeuse family more mortally than ever.” 

“I_- 

“Yes, you; and if you pretend to forget it, it is only 
that they may forget it. These people have offended you 
too cruelly not to fear you; you understand this, and 
you are doing all in your power to reassure them. You 
accept their advances — you kneel before them — why? 
Because they will be more competely in your power 
when you have lulled their suspicions to rest, and then 
you can strike them more surely — ” 

He paused; the communicating door opened, and 
Marie-Anne appeared upon the threshold. 

“Father,” said she, “here is the Marquis de Sairmeuse. ” 

This name, which Marie-Anne uttered in a voice of 
such perfect composure, in the midst of this excited dis- 
cussion, possessed such a powerful significance that M. 
d’Escorval stood as if petrified. 

“He dares to come here!” he thought. “How can it 
be that he does not fear the walls will fall and crush 
him?” 

M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance at his daughter. 
He suspected her of a ruse which would force him to 
reveal his secret. For a second, the most furious pas- 
sion contracted his features. 

But, by a prodigious effort of will, he succeeded in re- 
gaining his composure. He sprang to the door, pushed 
Marie-Anne aside, and leaning out, he said : 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


139 


“Deign to excuse me, monsieur, if I take the liberty of 
asking you to wait a moment ; I am just finishing some 
business, and I will be with you in a moment.” 

Neither agitation nor anger could be detected in his 
voice ; but, rather, a respectful deference, and a feeling 
of profound gratitude. 

Having said this, he closed the door and turned to M. 
d’Escorval. 

The baron, still standing with folded arms, had wit- 
nessed this scene with the air of a man who distrusts the 
evidence of his own senses ; and yet he understood the 
meaning of it only too well. 

“So this young man comes here?” he said to Lache- 
neur. 

“Almost every day— not at this hour, usually, but a 
trifle later.” 

“And you receive him? you welcome him?” 

“Certainly, monsieur. How can I be insensible to the 
honor he confers upon me? Moreover, we hav-e subjects 
of mutual interest to discuss. We are now occupied in 
legalizing the restitution of Sairmeuse. I can, also, give 
him much useful information, and many hints regard- 
ing the management of the property.” 

“And do you expect to make me, your old friend, be- 
lieve that a man of your superior intelligence is deceived 
by the excuses the marquis makes for these frequent 
visits? Look me in the eye, and then tell me, if you 
dare, that you believe these visits are addressed to you?” 

Lacheneur’s eye did not waver. 

“To whom else could they be addressed?” he inquired. 

This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron’s ex- 
pectations. He could not have received a heavier blow. 

“Take care, Lacheneur I” he said, sternly. “Think of 


140 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the situation in which you place your daughter, between 
Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wif-e, and M. 
de Sairmeuse, whose desires to make her—” 

“Who desires to make her his mistress— is that what 
you mean? Oh, say the word. But what does that 
matter? I am sure of Marie- Anne.” 

M. d’Escorval shuddered. 

“In other words,” said he, in bitter indignation, “you 
make your daughter’s honor and reputation your stake 
in the game you are playing.” 

This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his 
furious passion no longer. 

“Well, yes I” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath; 
“yes, you have spoken the truth. Marie- Anne must be, 
and will be, the instrument of my plans. A man situ- 
ated as I am is free from the considerations that restrain 
other men. Fortune, friends, life, honor — I have been 
forced to sacrifice all. Perish my daughter’s virtue — 
perish my daughter herself— what do they matter, if I 
can but succeed?” 

He was terrible in his fanaticism ; and in his mad ex- 
citement he clinched his hands as if he were threatening 
some invisible enemy; his eyes were wild and blood- 
shot. The baron seized him by the coat, as if to prevent 
his escape. 

“You admit it, then?” he said. “You wish to revenge 
yourself on the Sairmeuse family, and you have made 
Chanlouineau your accomplice?” 

But Lacheneur, with a sudden movement, freed him- 
self. “I admit nothing,” he replied. “And I wish to 
reassure you — ” 

He raised his hand as if to take an oath, and in a 
solemn voice, he said : 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


141 


“Before God, who hears my words, by all that I hold 
sacred in this world, by the memory of my sainted wife 
who lies beneath the sod, I swear that I am plotting 
nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I had no 
thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them 
only because they are absolutely indispensable to me. 
They will aid me without injuring themselves.” 

Lacheneur, this time, spoke the truth. His hearer felt 
it ; still he pretended to doubt. He thought by retain- 
ing his own self-possession, and exciting the anger of 
this unfortunate man still more, he might, perhaps, dis- 
cover his real intentions. So it was with an air of sus- 
picion that he said : “How can one believe this assurance 
after the avowal you have just made?” 

Lacheneur saw the snare ; he regained his self-posses- 
sion as if by magic. 

“So be it, monsieur, refuse to believe me. But you 
will wring from me only one more word on the subject. 
I have said too much already. I know that you are 
guided solely by friendship for me; my gratitude is 
great, but I cannot reply to your question. The events 
of the past few days have dug a deep abyss between you 
and me. Do not endeavor to pass it. Why should we 
ever meet again? I must say to you, what I said only 
yesterday to Abbe Midon. If you are my friend, you 
will never come here again— never— by night or by day, 
or under any pretext whatever. Even if they tell you 
that I am dying, do not come. This house is fatal. And 
if you meet me, turn away ; shun me as you would a 
pestilence whose touch is deadly !” 

The baron was silent. This was in substance what 
Marie- Anne had said to him, only under another form. 

“But there is still a wiser course that you might pur- 


142 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


sue. Everything here is certain to augment the sorrow 
and despair which afflict your son. There is not a path, 
nor a tree, nor a flower which does not cruelly remind 
him of his former happiness. Leave this place; take 
him with you, and go far awa 5 ^”^ 

“Ah! how can I do this? Fouche has virtually im- 
prisoned me here 1” 

“All the more reason why you should listen to my ad- 
vice. You were a friend of the emperor, hence you are 
regarded with suspicion; you are surrounded by spies. 
Your enemies are watching for an opportunity to ruin 
you. The slightest pretext would suffice to throw you 
into prison — a letter, a word, an act capable of being mis- 
construed. The frontier is not far off ; go, and wait in 
a foreign land for happier times.” 

“That is something which I will not do,” said M. d’Es- 
corval, proudly. 

His words and accent showed the folly of further dis- 
cussion. Lacheneur understood this only too well, and 
seemed to despair. 

“Ah! you are like Abbe Mid on,” he said, sadly; “you 
will not believe. Who knows how much your coming 
here this morning will cost you? It is said that no one 
can escape his destiny. But if some day the hand of the 
executioner is laid upon your shoulder, remember that 
I warned you, and do not curse me.” 

He paused, and seeing that even this sinister prophecy 
produced no impression upon the baron, he pressed his 
hand as if to bid him an eternal farewell, and opened the 
door to admit the Marquis de Sairmeuse. • 

Martial was, perhaps, annoyed at meeting M. d’Escor- 
val ; but he nevertheless bowed with studied politeness, 
and began a lively conversation with M. Lacheneur, tell- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


143 


ing him that the articles he had selected at the chateau 
were on their way. M. d’Escorval could do no more. To 
speak with Marie- Anne was impossible: Chanlouineau 
and Jean would not let him go out of their sight. 

He reluctantly departed, and oppressed by cruel fore- 
bodings he descended the hill which he had climbed an 
hour before so full of hope. 

What should he say to Maurice? 

He had reached the little grove of pines, when a hur- 
ried footstep behind him made him turn. 

The Marquis de Sairmeuse was following him, and 
motioned him to stop. The baron paused, greatly sur- 
prised ; Martial, with that air of ingenuousness which 
he knew so well how to assume, and in an almost brusk 
tone, said : 

“I hope, monsieur, that you will excuse me for hav- 
ing followed you, when you hear what I have to say. I 
am not of your party; I loathe what you adore; but 
I have none of the passion nor the malice of your ene- 
mies. For this reason I tell you that if I were in your 
place, I would take a journey. The frontier is but a few 
miles away: a good horse, a short gallop, and you have 
crossed it. A word to the wise is — salvation I” 

And without waiting for any response, he turned and. 
retraced his steps. 

M. d’Escorval was amazed and confounded. 

“One might suppose there was a conspiracy to drive 
me away I” he murmured. “But I have good reason to 
distrust the disinterestedness of this young man.” 

Martial was already far olf. Had he been less preoc- 
cupied, he would have perceived two figures in the wood. 
Mdlle. Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the inevi- 
table Aunt Medea, had come to play the spy. 


144 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The Marquis de Courtornieu idolized his daughter. 
Every one spoke of that as an incontestable and un- 
contested fact. 

When persons spoke to him of his daughter, they 
always said : 

“You, who adore your daughter—” 

And when he spoke of himself, he said : 

“I, who adore Blanche.” ^ 

The truth was, that he would have given a good deal, 
even a third of his fortune, to be rid of her. 

This smiling young girl, who seemed such an artless 
child, had gained an absolute control over him. She 
forced him to bow like a reed to her every caprice — and 
Heaven knows she had enough of them I 

In the hope of making his escape, he had thrown her 
Aunt Medea ; but in less than three months that poor 
woman had been completely subjugated, and did not 
serve to divert his daughter’s attention from him, even 
for a moment. 

Sometimes the marquis • revolted, but nine times out 
of ten he paid dearly for his attempts at rebellion. When 
Mdlle. Blanche turned her cold and steel-like eyes upon 
him with a certain peculiar expression, hf» courage evap- 
orated. Her weapon was irony ; and knowing his weak 
points she struck with wonderful precision. 

It is easy to understand how devoutly fie prayed and 
hoped that some honest young man, by speedily marry- 
ing his daughter, would free him from this cruel bond- 
age. But where was he to find this liberator ? 

The marquis had announced everywhere his intention 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


145 


of bestowing a dowry of a million upon his daughter. 
Of course this had brought a host of eager suitors, not 
only from the immediate neighborhood, but from parts 
remote. 

But, unfortunately, though many of them would have 
suited M. de Courtornieu well enough, not a single one 
had been so fortunate as to please Mdlle. Blanche. 

Her father presented some suitor ; she received him 
graciously, lavished all her charms upon him; but as 
soon as his back was turned, she disappointed all her 
father’s hopes by rejecting him. 

“He is too small,” she said, “or too large. His rank 
is not equal to ours. I think him stupid. He is a fool — 
his nose is so ugly.” 

From these summary decisions there was no appeal. 
Arguments and persuasions were useless. The con- 
demned'^ man no longer existed. 

Still, as this review of aspirants to her hand amused 
her, she encouraged her father in his efforts. 

He was beginning to despair, when fate dropped the 
Duke de Sairmeuse and son at his very door. When he 
saw Martial, he had a presentiment of his approaching 
release. 

“He will be my son-in-law,” he thought. 

The marquis believed it best to strike the iron while it 
was hot. So, the very next day, he broached the sub- 
ject to the duke. His overtures were favorably received. 

Possessed with the desire of transforming Sairmeuse 
into a little principality, the duke could not fail to be 
delighted with an alliance with one of the oldest and 
wealthiest families in the neighborhood. 

The conference was short. 

“Martial, my son, possesses, in his own right, an in- 


146 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


come of at least six hundred thousand francs,” said the 
duke. 

“I shall give my daughter at least— yes, at least fifteen 
hundred thousand francs as her marriage portion, ” de- 
clared the marquis. 

“His majesty is favorably disposed toward me. I can 
obtain any important diplomatic position for Martial.” 

“In case of trouble, I have many friends among the 
opposition.” ' 

The treaty was thus concluded ; but M. de Courtornieu 
took good care not to speak of it to his daughter. If he 
told her how much he desired the match, she would be 
sure to oppose it. Non-interference seemed advisable. 

The correctness of his judgment was fully demon- 
strated. One morning Mdlle. Blanche made her appear- 
ance in his cabinet. 

“Your capricious daughter has decided, papa, that she 
would like to become the Marquise de Sairmeuse,” said 
she, peremptorily. 

It cost M. de Courtornieu quite an effort to conceal his 
delight; but he feared if she discovered his satisfaction 
that the game would be lost. 

He presented several objections; they were quickly 
disposed of ; and, at last, he ventured to say : 

“Then the marriage is half decided; one of the parties 
consents. It only remains to ascertain if — ” 

“The other will consent,” declared the vain heiress. 

And, in fact, for several days Mdlle. Blanche had been 
applying herself assiduously and quite successfully to the 
work of fascination which was to bring Martial to her 
feet. 

After having made m advance, with studied frankness 
and simplicity, sure of the effect she had produced, she 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


U7 


now proceeded to beat a retreat — a maneuver so simple 
that it was almost sure to succeed. 

Until now she had been gay, spirituelle, and coquet- 
tish; gradually, she became quiet and reserved. The 
giddy school-girl had given place to the shrinking virgin. 

With what perfection she played her part in the divine 
comedy of first love ! Martial could not fail to be fasci- 
nated by the modest artlessness and chaste fears of the 
heart which seemed to be waking for him. When he 
appeared, Mdlle. Blanche blushed, and was silent. At 
a word from him, she became confused. He could only 
occasionally catch a glimpse of her beautiful eyes through 
the shelter of their long lashes. 

Who had taught her this refinement of coquetry ? They 
say that the convent is an excellent teacher. 

But what she had not learned was that the most clever 
often become the dupes of their own imagination ; and 
that great comediennes generally conclude by shedding 
real tears. 

She learned this one evening, when a laughing remark 
made by the Duke de Sairmeuse revealed the fact that 
Martial was in the habit of going to Lacheneur’s house 
every day. 

What she experienced now could not be compared 
with the jealousy, or rather anger, which had previously 
egitated her. 

This was an acute, bitter and intolerable sorrow. Be- 
fore, she had been able to retain her composure ; now, it 
was impossible. 

That she /night not betray herself, she left the draw- 
ing-room precipitately, and hastened to her own room, 
where she burst into a fit of passionate sobbing. 

‘Uan it be that he does not love me?” she murmured. 


148 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


This thought made her cold with terror. For the first 
time this haughty heiress distrusted her own power. 

She reflected that Martial’s position was so exalted 
that he could afford to despise rank ; that he was so rich 
that wealth had no attractions for him; and that she 
herself might not be so pretty and so charming as flat- 
terers had led her to suppose. 

Still, Martial’s conduct during the past week — and 
Heaven knows with what fidelity her memory recalled 
each incident !— was well calculated to reassure her. 

He had not, it is true, formally declared himself ; but 
it was evident that he was paying his addresses to her. 
His manner was that of the most respectful, but the most 
infatuated of lovers. 

Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of 
her maid, bringing a large bouquet of roses which had 
just been sent by Martial. 

She took the flowers, and while arranging them in a 
large Japanese vase, she bedewed them with the first 
real, sincere tears she had shed since her entrance into 
the world. 

She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she 
appeared the next morning at breakfast, that Aunt 
Medea was alarmed. 

Mdlle. Blanche had prepared an excuse, and she 
uttered it in such sweet tones, that the poor lady was 
as much amazed as if she had witnessed a miracle. 

M. de Courtornieu was no less astonished. 

“Of what new freak is this doleful face the preface?’* 
he wondered. 

He was still more alarmed when, immediately after 
breakfast, his daughter asked a moment’s conversation 
with him. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


149 


She followed him into his study, and as soon as they 
were alone, without giving her father time to seat him- 
self, Mdlle. Blanche entreated him to tell her all that 
had passed between the Duke de Sairmeuse and himself, 
and asked if Martial had been informed of the intended 
alliance, and what he had replied. 

Her voice was meek, her eyes tearful; her manner 
indicated the most intense anxiety. 

The marquis was delighted. 

“My willful daughter has been playing with fire,” he 
thought, stroking his chin caressingly; “and, upon my 
word, she has burned herself.” 

“Yesterday, my child,” he replied, “the Duke de Sair- 
meuse formally demanded your hand on behalf of his 
son ; your consent is all that is lacking. So rest easy, 
my beautiful, lovelorn damsel — you will be a duchess.” 

She hid her face in her hands to conceal her blushes. 

“You know my decision, father,” she faltered, in an 
almost inaudible voice — “we must make haste.” 

He started back, thinking he had not heard her words 
aright. “Make haste I” he repeated. 

“Yes, father. I have fears.” 

“What fears, in Heaven’s name?” 

“I will tell you when everything is settled,” she re- 
plied, as she made her escape from the room. 

She did not doubt the reports which had reached her 
ears of Martial’s frequent visits to Marie- Anne, but she 
wished to see for herself. 

So, as soon as she left her father, she obliged Aunt 
Medea to dress herself, and without vouchsafing a single 
word of explanation, took her with her to the Reche, and 
stationed herself where she could command a view of M. 
Lacheneur’s house. 


150 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


It chanced to be the very day on which M. d’Escorval 
came to ask an explanation from his friend. She saw 
him come ; then, after a little, Martial made his appear- 
ance. She had not been mistaken — now she could go 
home satisfied. 

But no. She resolved to count the seconds which Mar- 
tial passed with Marie- Anne. 

M. d’Escorval did not remain long; she saw Martial 
hasten out after him, and speak to him. 

She breathed again. His visit had not lasted a half 
hour, and doubtless he was going away. Not at all. 
After a moment’s conversation with the baron, he re- 
turned to the house. 

“What are we doing here?’’ demanded Aunt Medea. 

“Let me alone I” replied Mdlle. Blanche angrily; 
“hold your tongue!” 

She heard the sound of wheels, the tramp of horses’ 
hoofs, blows of the whip, and oaths. 

The wagons bearing the furniture and clothing belong- 
ing to M. Lacheneur were coming. 

^ This noise Martial must have heard within the house, 
for he came out, and after him came M. Lacheneur, 
Jean, Chanlouineau and Marie- Anne. 

Every one was soon busy in unloading the wagons, 
and positively, from the movements of the young Mar- 
quis de Sairmeuse, one would have sworn that he was 
giving orders ; he came and went, hurrying to and fro, 
talking to everybody, not even disdaining to lend a hand 
occasionally. 

“He, a nobleman, makes himself at home in that 
wretche:. hovel !” Mdlle. Blanche said to herself. “How 
horrible ! Ah ! this dangerous creature will do with him 
whatever she desires.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


151 


All this was nothing compared with what was to come. 
A third wagon appeared, drawn by a single horse, and 
laden with pots of flowers and s'hrubs. 

This sight drew a cry of rage from Mdlle. de Courtor- 
nieu which must have carried terror to Aunt Medea’s 
heart. 

“Flowers !” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with pas- 
sion. “He sends flowers to her, as he does to me — only 
he sends me a bouquet, while for her he despoils the gar- 
dens of Sairmeuse.” 

“What are you saying about flowers?” inquired the 
impoverished relative. 

Mdlle. Blanche replied that she had not made the slight- 
est allusion to flowers. She was suffocating — and yet she 
compelled herself to remain there three mortal hours — 
all the time that was required to unload the furniture. 

Tlie wagons had been gone some time, when Martial 
again appeared upon the threshold. 

Marie- Anne had accompanied him to the door, and 
they were talking together. It seeme*^ impossible for 
him to make up his mind to depart. j 

He did so, at last, however ; but he left slowly and 
with evident reluctance. Marie- Anne, remaining in the 
door, gave him a friendly gesture of farewell. 

“I wish to speak to this creature!’* exclaimed Mdlle. 
Blanche. “Come, aunt, at once !” 

Had Marie- Anne, at that moment, been within the 
reach of Mdlle. de Courtornieu’s voice, she would cer- 
tainly have learned the secret of her former friend’s 
anger and hatred. 

But fate willed it otherwise. At least three hundred 
yards of rough ground separated the place where Mdlle. 
Blanche had stationed herself from the Lacheneur cot- 


152 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


tage. It required a moment to cross this space; and 
that was time enough to change all the girl’s intentions. 

She had not traversed a quarter of the distance before 
she bitterly regretted having shown herself at all. But 
to retrace her steps now was impossible, for Marie- Anne, 
who was still standing upon the threshold, had seen her 
approaching. 

There remained barely time to regain her self-control 
and to compose her features. She profited by it. 

She had her sweetest smile upon her lips as she greeted 
Marie- Anne. Still, she was embarrassed; she did not 
know what excuse to give for her visit, and to gain time 
she pretended to be quite out of breath. 

“Ah I it is not very easy to reach you, dear Marie- 
Anne,” she said, at last; “you live upon the summit of 
a veritable mountain.’* 

Mdlle. Lacheneur said not a word. She was greatly 
surprised, and she did not attempt to conceal the fact. 

“Aunt Medea pretended to know the road,” continued 
Mdlle. Blanche; “but she led me astray; did you not, 
aunt?” As usual, the impecunious relative assented, and 
her niece resumed ; 

“But at last we are here. I could not, my dearest, re- 
sign myself to hearing nothing from you, especially after 
all your misfortunes. What have you been doing? Dici 
my recommendation procure for you the work you de- 
sired?” 

Marie-Anne could not fail to be deeply touched by this 
kindly interest on the part of her former friend. So, 
with perfect frankness, and without any false shame, 
she confessed that all her efforts had been fruitless. It 
had even seemed to her that several ladies had taken 
pleasure in treating her unkindly. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


153 


But Mdlle. Blanche was not listening. A, few steps 
from her stood the flowers brought from Sairmeuse; 
and their perfume rekindled her anger. 

“At least,” she interrupted, “you have here what will 
almost make you forget the gardens of Sairmeuse. Who 
sent you these beautiful flowers?” 

Marie- Anne turned crimson. She did not speak for a 
moment, but at last she replied, or rather stammered : 

“It is — an attention from the Marquis de Sairmeuse.” 

“So she confesses it!” thought Mdlle. de Courtornieu, 
amazed at what she was pleased to consider an outra- 
geous piece of impudence. 

But she succeeded in concealing her rage beneath a 
loud burst of laughter ; and it was in a tone of raillery 
that she said : “Take care, my dear friend ; I am going 
to call you to account. It is from my fiance that you 
are accepting flowers.” 

“What, the Marquis de Sairmeuse—” 

“Has demanded the hand of your friend. Yes, my 
darling; and my father has given it to him. It is a 
secret as yet ; but I see no danger in conflding in your 
friendship.” 

She believed that she had inflicted a mortal wound 
upon Marie- Anne’s heart ; but though she watched her 
closely, she failed to detect the slightest trace of emotion 
upon her face. 

“What dissimulation !” she thought. Then aloud, and 
with affected gayety, she resumed : 

‘ ‘And the country folks will see two weddings at about 
the same time, since you, also, are going to be married, 
my dear.” 

“I!” 

“Yes, you— you little deceiver! Everybody knows 


154 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


that you are engaged to a young man in the neighbor- 
hood, named— wait— I know— Chanlouineau. ” 

Thus -the report that annoyed Marie- Anne so' much 
reached her from every side. 

“Everybody is for once mistaken,” said she, energeti- 
cally. “I shall never be that young man’s wife.” 

“But why? They speak well of him, personally, and 
he is quite rich.” 

“Because,” faltered Marie- Anne; “because — ” 

Maurice d’Escorval’s name trembled upon her lips ; but 
unfortunately she did not utter it, prevented by a strange 
expression on the face of her friend. How often one’s 
destiny depends upon a circumstance apparently as trivial 
as this ! 

“Impudent, worthless creature!” thought Mdlle. 
Blanche. 

Then, in cold and sneering tones, that betrayed her 
hatred unmistakably, she said : 

“You are wrong, believe me, to refuse this offer. This 
Chanlouineau will, at all events, save you from the pain- 
ful necessity oi’ laboring with your own hands, and of 
going from door to door in quest of work which is refused 
you. But, no matter ; J” — she laid great stress upon this 
word— “J mil be more generous than your old acquaint- 
ances. I have a great deal of embroidery to be done. I 
shall send it to you by my maid, and you two may agree 
upon the price. W e must go. Good-by, my dear. Come, 
Aunt Medea.” 

She departed, leaving Marie- Anne petrified with sur- 
prise, sorrow, and indignation. 

Although less experienced than Mdile. Blanche, she 
comprehended that this strange visit concealed some 
mystery — but what? 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


155 


For more than a minute she stood motionless, gazing 
after her departing guests, then she started suddenly as 
a hand was laid gently upon her shoulder. 

She trembled, and turning quickly, found herself face 
to face with her father. 

Lacheneur’s face was whiter than his linen, and a sinis- 
ter light glittered in his eye. “I was there,” said he, 
pointing to the door, “and I heard all.” 

“Father!” 

“What! would you try to defend her after she came 
here to crush you with her insolent good fortune — after 
she overwhelmed you with her ironical pity and with her 
scorn ! I tell you they are all like this— these girls, whose 
heads have been turned by flattery, and who believe that 
in their veins flows a different blood from ours. But 
patience ! The day of reckoning is near at hand !” 

Those whom he threatened would have shuddered had 
they seen him at that moment, so terrible was the rage 
revealed by his accent, so formidable did he appear. 

“And you, my beloved daughter, my poor Marie- Anne, 
you did not understand the insults she heaped upon you. 
You are wondering why she should have treated you 
with such disdain. Ah, well! I will tell you: she 
imagines that the Marquis de Sairmeuse is your lover.” 

Marie- Anne tottered beneath the terrible blow, and a 
nervous spasm shook her from head to foot. 

“Can this be possible?” she exclaimed. “Great God I 
what shame ! what humiliation !” 

“And why should this astonish you?” said Lacheneur, 
coldly. “Have you not expected this ever since the day 
when you, my devoted daughter, consented, for the sake 
of my plans, to submit to the attentions of this marquis, 
whom you loathe as much as I despise?” 


156 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


'‘But Maurice ! Maurice will despise me I I can bear 
anything, yes, everything but that!” 

M. Lacheneur made no reply. Marie- Anne’s despair 
was heartbreaking; he felt that he could not bear to 
witness it, that it would shake his resolution, and he 
re-entered the house. 

But his penetration was not at fault. While waiting 
to find a revenge which would be worthy of her, Mdlle. 
Blanche armed herself with a weapon of which jealousy 
and hatred so often avail themselves — calumny. 

Two or three abominable stories which she concocted, 
and which she forced Aunt Medea to circulate every- 
where, did not produce the desired effect. 

Marie- Anne’s reputation was, of course, ruined by 
them; but Martial’s visits, instead of ceasing, became 
longer and more frequent. Dissatisfied with his prog- 
ress, and fearful that he was being duped, he even 
watched the house. 

So it happened that, one evening, when he was quite 
sure that Lacheneur, his son and Chanlouineau were 
absent. Martial saw a man leave the house and hasten 
across the fields. 

He rushed aftei . im, but the man escaped. 

He believed, however, that he recognized Maurice 
d’Escorval. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

After his son’s confession, M. d’Escorval was prudent 
enough to make no allusion to the hopes he, himself, 
entertained. 

“My poor Maurice,” he thought, “is heartbroken, but 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


157 


resigned. It is better for him to remain without hope 
than to be exposed to the danger of another disappoint- 
ment.” 

But passion is not always blind. What the baron con- 
cealed, Maurice divined ; and he clung to this faint hope 
as tenaciously as a drowning man clings to the plank 
which is his only hope of salvation. 

If he asked his parents no questions, it was only be- 
cause he was convinced that they would not tell him the 
truth. 

But he watched all that went on in the house with that 
subtleness of penetration which fever so often imparts. 

Not one of his father’s movements escaped his vigilant 
eye and ear. 

Consequently he heard him put on his boots, ask for 
his hat, and select a cane from among those standing in 
the vestibule. He also heard the outer gate grate upon 
ite hinges. 

“My father is going out,” he said, to himself. 

And, weak as he was, he succeeded in dragging him- 
self to the window in time to satisfy himself of the truth 
of his conjectures. 

“If my father is going out,” he thought, “it can only 
be to visit M. Lacheneur — then he has not relinquished 
all hope.” 

An arm-chair was standing near by ; he sank into it, 
intending to watch for his father’s return ; by doing so, 
he might know his destiny a few moments sooner. 

Three long hours passed before the baron returned. 

By his father’s dejected manner he plainly saw that 
all hope was lost. He was sure of it; as sure as the 
criminal who reads the fatal verdict in the solemn face 
of the judge. 


158 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He had need of all his energy to regain his couch. For 
a moment he felt that he was dying. 

But he was ashamed of this weakness, which he judged 
unworthy of him. He determined to know what had 
passed — to demand the details. 

He rang, and told the servant that he wished to speak 
to his father. M. d’Escorval promptly made his appear- 
ance. 

“Well?” cried Maurice. 

M. d’Escorval felt that deoial was useless. 

“Lacheneur is deaf to my remonstrances and to my 
entreaties,” he replied, madly. “Nothing remains for 
you but to submit, my son. I shall not tell you that 
time will assuage the sorrow that now seems insupport- 
able — you would not believe me. But I do say to you, 
that you are a man, and that you must prove your 
courage. I say even more; fight against thoughts of 
Marie- Anne as a traveler on the verge of a precipice 
fights against the thoughts of vertigo.” 

“Have you seen Marie- Anne, father? Have you 
spoken to her?” 

“I found her even more inflexible than Lacheneur.” 

“They reject me, and they receive Chanlouineau, per- 
haps.” 

“Chanlouineau is living there.” 

“My God ! And Martial de Sairmeuse?” 

“He is their familiar guest. I saw him there.” 

That each of these responses fell upon Maurice like a 
thunderbolt, was only too evident. 

But M. d’Escorval had armed himself with the im- 
passible courage of a surgeon who does not relax his hold 
on his instruments because the patient groans and writhes 
in agony. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


159 


M. d’Escorval wished to extinguish the last ray of hope 
in the heart of his son. 

“It is evident that M. Lacheneur has lost his reason !” 
exclaimed Maurice. ^ 

The baron shook his head despondently. 

“I thought so myself, at first,” he murmured. 

“But what does he say in justification of his conduct? 
He must say something.” 

“Nothing; he refuses any explanation.” 

“And you, father, with all your knowledge of human 
nature, with all your wide experience, have not been able 
to fathom his intentions?” 

“I have my suspicions,” M. d’Escorval replied; “but 
only suspicions. It is possible that Lacheneur, listening 
to the voice of hatred, is dreaming of a terrible ven- 
geance. Who knows if he does not think of organizing 
some conspiracy, of which he is to be the leader? These 
suppositions would explain everything. Chanlouineau is 
the aider and abettor ; and he pretends to be reconciled 
to the Marquis de Sairmeuse in order to get information 
through him — ” 

The blood had returned to the pale cheeks of Maurice. 

“Such a conspiracy would not explain M. Lacheneur ’s 
obstinate rejection of my suit.” 

“Alas! yes, my poor boy. It is through Marie- Anne 
that Lacheneur exerts such an influence over Chanloui- 
neau and the Marquis de Sairmeuse. If she became your 
wife to-day, they would desert him to-morrow. Then, 
too, it is precisely because he loves us that he is deter- 
mined we shall not be mixed up in an enterprise the suc- 
cess of which is extremely doubtful. But these are mere 
conjectures.” 

“Then, I see, that it is necessary to submit, to be re- 


160 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


signed; forget, I cannot, ” faltered Maurice. He said this 
because he wished to reassure his father ; but he thought 
exactly the opposite. 

“If Lacheneur i^ organizing a conspiracy,” he said to 
himself, “he must need assistance. Why should I not 
offer mine? If I aid him in his preparations, if I share 
his hopes and his dangers, it will be impossible for him 
to refuse me the hand of his daughter. Whatever he 
may desire to undertake, I can surely be of greater as- 
sistance than Chanlouineau. ” 

From that moment Maurice thought only of doing 
everything possible to hasten his convalescence. This 
was so rapid, so extraordinarily rapid, as to astonish 
Abbe Midon, who had taken the place of the physician 
from Montaignac. 

“I never would have believed that Maurice could have 
been thus consoled,” said Mme. d’Escorval, delighted to 
see her son’s wonderful improvement in health and 
spirits. 

But the baron made no response. He regarded this al- 
most miraculous recovery with distrust, he was assailed 
by a vague suspicion of the truth. 

He questioned his son, but skillfully as he did it, he 
could draw nothing from him. 

Maurice had decided to say nothing to his parents. 
What good would it do to trouble them? Besides, he 
feared remonstrance and opposition, and he was resolved 
to carry out his plans, even if he was compelled to leave 
the paternal roof. 

In the second week of September, the abbe declared 
that Maurice might resume his ordinary life, and that, 
as the weather was pleasant, it would be well for him to 
spend much of his time in the open air. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


161 


In his delight, Maurice embraced the worthy priest. 

“What happiness I” he exclaimed; “then I can hunt 
once more !” 

He really cared but little for the chase ; but he deemed 
it expedient to pretend a great passion for it, since it 
would furnish him with an excuse for frequent and 
protracted absences. 

Never had he felt more happy than on the morning 
when, with his gun upon his shoulder, he crossed the 
Oiselle and started for the abode of M. Lacheneur. On 
reaching the little ^ove on the Reche, he paused for a 
moment at a place which commanded a view of the cot- 
tage. While he stood there, he saw Jean Lacheneur and 
Chanlouineau leave the house, each laden with a peddler’s 
pack. Maurice was, therefore, sure that M. Lacheneur and 
Marie- Anne were alone in the house. He hastened to the 
cottage and entered without stopping to rap. 

Marie-Anne and her father were kneeling on the 
hearth, upon which a huge fire was blazing. 

On hearing the door open, they turned ; and at sight 
of Maurice they both sprang up, blushed and confused. 

“What brings you here?” they exclaimed, in the same 
breath. 

Under other circumstances, Maurice d’Escorval would 
have been dismayed by such a hostile greeting, but now 
he scarcely noticed it. 

“You have no business to return here against my 
wishes, and after what I have said to you. Monsieur 
d’Escorval,” said Lacheneur, rudely. 

Maurice smiled. He was perfectly cool, and not a de- 
tail of the scene before him had escaped his notice. If 
he had felt any doubts before, they were now dissipated. 
He saw upon the fire a large kettle of melted lead, and 


162 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


several bullet molds stood on the hearth, beside the and- 
irons. 

“If I venture to present myself at your house, mon- 
sieur,” said Maurice, gravely and impressively, “it is 
becajise I know all. I have discovered your revengeful 
project. You are looking for men to aid you, are you 
not? Very well ! look me in the face, in the eyes, and 
tell me if I am not one of those whom a leader is glad 
to enroll among his followers?” 

M. Lacheneur was terribly agitated. 

“I do not know what you mean,” he faltered, forget- 
ting his feigned anger; “I have no projects.” 

“Would you assert this upon oath? Why are you cast- 
ing these bullets? You are clumsy conspirators. You 
should lock your door ; some one else might have en- 
tered.” And, adding example to precept, he turned and 
pushed the bolt. 

“This is only an imprudence,” he continued; “but to 
reject a soldier who comes to you voluntarily would be 
a fault for which your associate would have a right to 
call you to account. I have no desire, understand me, 
to force myself into your confidence. No ; I give myself 
to you blindly, body and soul. Whatever your cause 
may be, I declare it mine; what you wish, I wish; I 
adopt your plans ; your enemies are my enemies ; com/- 
raand, I will obey. I ask only one favor, that of fight- 
ing, of triumphing, or of dying by your side.” 

“Oh! refuse, father!” exclaimed Marie- Anne, “re- 
fuse. To accept this offer would be a crime !” 

“A crime ! And why, if you please?” 

“Because our cause is not your cause; because its suc- 
cess is doubtful ; because dangers surround us on -every 
side!” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


163 


A scornful exclamation from Maurice interrupted her. 

“And it is you who think to dissuade me by pointing 
out the dangers that threaten you, the dangers that you 
are braving — “ 

“Maurice!” 

“So if imminent peril menaced me, instead of coming 
to my aid you would desert me? You would hide your- 
self, saying ; ‘Let him perish, so that I be saved !’ Speak I 
would you do this?” 

She averted her face and made no reply. She could 
not force herself to utter an untruth ; and she was un- 
willing to answer: “I would act as you are acting.” 
She waited for her father’s decision. 

“If I should comply with your request, Maurice,” said 
M. Lacheneur, “in less than three days you would curse 
me, and ruin us by some outburst of anger. You love 
Marie-Anne. Could you see, unmoved, the frightful 
position in which she is placed? Remember, she must 
not discourage the addresses either of Chanlouineau or 
of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. You regard me — Oh ! I 
know as well as you do that it is a shameful and odious 
role that I impose upon her — that she is compelled to 
play a part in which she will lose a yoimg girl’s most 
precious possession — her reputation.” 

Maurice did not wince. “So be it,” he said, calmly. 
“ Marie-Anne ’s fate will be that of all women who have 
devoted themselves to the political advancement of the 
man whom they love, be he father, brother, or lover. 
She will be slandered, insulted, calumniated. What 
does it matter I She may continue her task. I consent 
to it, for I shall never doubt her, and I shall know how 
to hold my peace. If we succeed, she shall be my wife ; 
if we fail — ” 


164 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The gesture which concluded the sentence said more 
strongly than any protestations that he was ready, re- 
signed to anything. 

M. Lacheneur was greatly moved. 

“At least, give me time for reflection,” said he. 

“There is no necessity for further reflection, monsieur. ” 

“But you are only a child, Maurice; and your father 
is my friend.” 

“What of that?” 

“Rash boy ! do you not understand that by compromis- 
ing yourself you also compromise Baron d’Escorval? 
You think you are risking only your own head; you 
are endangering your father’s life — ” 

But Maurice violently interrupted him. 

“There has been too much parleying already !” he ex- 
claimed; “there have been too many remonstrances. 
Answer me in a word! Only understand this: if you 
reject me, I will return to my father’s house, and with 
this gun which I hold in my hand I will blow out my 
brains !” 

This was no idle threat. It was evident that what he 
said, that would he do. His listeners were so convinced 
of this, that Marie- Anne turned to her father with clasped 
hands and a look of entreaty. 

“You are one of us, then,” said M. Lacheneur, stern- 
ly; “but do not forget that you forced me to consent by 
threats ; and whatever may happen to you or yours, re- 
member that you would have it so.” 

But these gloomy words produced no impression upon 
Maurice ; he was wild with joy. 

“Now,” continued M. Lacheneur, “I must tell you my 
hopes, and acquaint you with tlie cause for which I am 
laboring—” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


165 


“What does that matter to me?“ Maurice exclaimed, 
gayly ; and springing toward Marie- Anne, he seized her 
hand and raised it to his lips, crying, with the joyous 
laugh of youth : “My cause — here it is 1” 

Lacheneur turned away. Perhaps he recollected that 
a sacrifice of his pride was all that was necessary to as- 
sure the happiness of these poor children. 

But if a feeling of remorse entered his mind, he drove 
it away, and with increased sternness he said : 

“Still, Monsieur d’Escorval, it is necessary for you to 
understand our agreement.” 

“Make known your conditions, sir.” 

“First, your visits here — after certain rumors that I 
have put in circulation — would arouse suspicion. You 
must come here only at night, and then only at hours 
that have been agreed upon in advance — never when you 
are not expected.” 

The attitude of Maurice expressed his entire consent. 

“Moreover, you must find some way to cross the river 
without having recourse to the ferryman, who is a ‘dan- 
gerous fellow.” 

“We have an old skiff; I will persuade my father to 
have it repaired.” 

“Very well. Will you also promise me to avoid the 
Marquise de Sairmeuse?” 

“I will.” 

“Wait a moment — we must be prepared for any emer- 
gency. It may be that, in spite of our precautions, you 
will meet him here. M. de Sairmeuse is arrogance it- 
self ; and he hates you. You detest him, and you are 
very hasty. Swear to me that if he provokes you, you 
will ignore his insults.” 

“But I should be considered a coward, monsieur.” 


166 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Probably. Will you swear?” 

Maurice hesitated, but an imploring look from Marie- 
Anne decided him. 

“I swear I” he said, gravely. 

“As far as Chanlouineau is concerned, it would be bet- 
ter not to let him know of our agreement — but I will take 
care of this matter.” 

M. Lacheneur paused and reflected for a moment, as 
if striving to discover if he had forgotten anything. 

“Nothing remains, Maurice,” he resumed, “but to give 
you a last and very important piece of advice. Do you 
know my son?” 

“Certainly; we were formerly the best of comrades 
during our vacations.” 

“Very well. When you know my secret — for I shall 
confide it to you without reserve — beware of Jean !” 

“What, sir?” 

“Beware of Jean I repeat it.” 

And he blushed deeply, as he added : 

“Ah! it is a painful avowal for a father; but I have 
no confidence in my own son. He knows no more in 
regard to my plans than I told him on the day of his 
arrival. I deceive him, becar.se I fear he might betray 
us. Perhaps it would be wise to send him away ; but in 
that case, what would people say? Most assuredly they 
would say that I was very avaricious of my own blood, 
while I was very ready to risk the lives of others. Still, 
I may be mistaken; I may misjudge him.” 

He sighed, and added : “Beware !” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


167 


CHAPTER XIX. 

So it was really Maurice d’Escorval whom the Marquis 
de Sairmeuse had seen leaving Lacheneur’s house. 

Martial was not certain of it, but the very possibility 
made his heart swell with anger. 

“What part am I playing here, then?” he exclaimed, 
indignantly. 

He had been so completely blinded by passion that he 
would not have been likely to discover the real condition 
of affairs, even if no pains had been taken to deceive him. 

Lacheneur’s formal courtesy and politeness he regarded 
as sincere. He believed in the studied respect shown 
him by Jean ; and the almost servile obsequiousness of 
Chanlouineau did not surprise him in the least. 

And since Marie- Anne welcomed him politely, he con- 
cluded that his suit was progressing favorably. 

Having himself forgotten, he supposed that every one 
else had ceased to remember. 

Moreover, he was of the opinion that he had acted with 
great generosity, and that he was entitled to the deep 
gratitude of the Lacheneur family; for M. Lacheneur 
had received the legacy bequeathed him by Mdlle. Ar- 
mande, and an indemnity, besides all the furniture he 
had chosen to take from the chateau — a total of at least 
sixty thousand francs. 

“He must be hard to please, if he is not satisfied !” 
growled the duke, enraged at such prodigality, though 
it did not cost him a penny. 

Martial had supposed himself the only visitor at the 
cottage on the Reche ; and when he discovered that such 
was not the case, he became furious. 


168 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Am I, then, the dupe of a shameless girl?” he 
thought. 

He was so incensed, that for more than a week he did 
not go to Lacheneur’s house. 

His father concluded that his ill-humor and gloom 
was caused by some misunderstanding with Marie- Anne ; 
and he took advantage of this opportunity to gain his 
son’s consent to an alliance with Blanche de Courtornieu. 

A victim to the most cruel doubts and fears. Martial, 
goaded to the last extremity, exclaimed : 

“Very well! I will marry Mademoiselle Blanche.” 

Tlie duke did not allow such a good resolution to grow 
cold. In less than forty-eight hours the engagement was 
made quite public; ‘the marriage contract was drawn 
up, and it was announced that the wedding would take 
place early in the spring. 

A grand banquet was given at Sairmeuse in honor of 
the betrothal — a banquet all the more brilliant since 
there were other victories to be celebrated. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse had just received, with his 
brevet of lieutenant-general, a commission placing him 
in command of the military department of Montaignac. 

The Marquis de Courtornieu had also received an ap- 
pointment, making him provost-marshal of the same 
district. 

Blanche had triumphed. After this public betrothal, 
Martial was bound to her. 

For a fortnight, indeed, he scarcely left her side. In 
her society there was a charm whose sweetness almost 
made him forget his love for Marie- Anne. 

But unfortunately the haughty heiress could not resist 
the temptation to make a slighting allusion to Mari®- 
Anne, and to the lowliness of the marquis’s former 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


169 


tastes. She found an opportunity to say that she fur- 
nished Marie-Anne with work to aid her in earning a 
living. . 

Martial forced himself to smile; but the indignity 
which Marie-Anne had received aroused his sympathy 
and indignation. 

And the next day he went to Lacheneur’s house. 

In the warmth of the greeting that awaited him there, 
all his anger vanished, all his suspicions evaporated. 
Marie-Anne ’s eyes beamed with joy on seeing him 
again; he noticed it. 

% 

“Oh ! I shall win her yet !” he thought. 

All the household were really delighted at his return ; 
the son of the commander of the military forces at 
Montaignac, and the prospective son-in-law of the 
provost-marshal. Martial was a most valuable instru- 
ment. 

“Through him we shall have an eye and an ear in the 
enemy’s camp,” said Lacheneur. “The Marquis de Sair- 
meuse will be our spy.” 

He was, for he soon resumed his daily visits to the 
cottage. It was now December, and the roads were 
terrible; but neither rain, snow, nor mud could keep 
Martial from the cottage. 

He made his appearance generally as early as ten 
o’clock, seated himself upon a stool in the shadow of the 
tall fireplace, and he and Marie-Anne talked by the 
hour. 

She seemed greatly interested in matters at Montaig- 
nac, and he told her all that he knew in regard to affairs 
there. 

Sometimes they were alone. 

Lacheneur, Chanlouineau, and Jean were tramping 


170 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


about the country with their merchandise. Business 
was prospering so well that M. Lacheneur had purchased 
a horse in order to extend his journeys. 

But Martial’s conversation was generally interrupted 
by visitors. It was really surprising to see how many 
peasants came to the house to speak to M. Lacheneur. 
There was an interminable procession of them. And to 
each of these peasants Marie- Anne had something to say 
in private. Then she offered each man refreshments — 
the house seemed almost like a common drinking 
saloon. 

But what can daunt the courage of a lover? Martial 
endured all this without a murmur. He laughed and 
jested with the comers and goers ; he shook hands with 
them ; sometimes even drank with them. 

He gave many other proofs of moral courage. He 
offered to assist M. Lacheneur in making up his ac- 
counts; and once — it happened about the middle of 
February — seeing Chanlouineau worrying over the com- 
position of a letter, he actually offered to act as his 
amanuensis. 

“The d— d letter is not for me, but for an uncle of 
mine who is about to marry off his daughter,” said 
Chanlouineau. 

Martial took a seat at the table, and, at Chanlouineau ’s 
dictation, but not without many erasures, indited the 
following epistle : 

“My dear Friend — We are at last agreed, and the 
marriage has been decided upon. We are now busy 
with preparations for the wedding, which will take 

place on . We invite you to give us the pleasure of 

your company. We count upon you, and be assured the 
more friends you bring with you the better we shall be 
pleased.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


171 


Had Martial seen the smile on Chanlouineau’s lips 
when he requested him to leave the date for the wed- 
ding a blank, he would certainly have suspected that he 
had been caught in a snare. But he was in love. 

“Ah ! marquis,'’ remarked his father one day, “Chupin 
tells me you are always at Lacheneur’s. Wlien will you 
recover from your penchant for that little girl?’’ 

Martial did not reply. He felt that he was at that 
“little girl’s’’ mercy. Each glance of hers made his 
heart throb wildly. By her side he was a willing cap- 
tive. If she had asked him to make her his wife he 
would not have said no. 

But Marie-Anne had not this ambition. All her 
thoughts, all her wishes were for her father’s success. 

Maurice and Marie-Anne had become M. Lacheneur’s 
most intrepid auxiliaries. They were looking forward to 
such a magnificent reward. 

Such feverish activity as Maurice displayed ! All day 
long he hurried from hamlet to hamlet, and in the 'even- 
ing, as soon as dinner was over, he made his escape from 
the drawing-room, sprang into his boat, and hastened to 
the Reche. 

M. d’Escorval could not fail to remark the long and 
frequent absences of his son. He watched him, and soon 
became absolutely certain that Lacheneur had, to-use 
the baron’s own expression, seduced him. 

Greatly alarmed, he decided to go and see his former 
friend, and fearing another repulse, he begged Abbe 
Midon to accompany him. 

It was on the fourth of March, at about half-past four 
o’clock, that M. d’Escorval and the cure started for the 
Reche. They were so anxious and troubled in mind that 
they scarcely exchanged a dozen words as they wended 


172 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


their way onward. A strange sight met their eyes as 
they emerged from the grove on the Reche. 

Night was falling, but it was still light enough for 
them to distinguish objects only a short distance from 
them. 

Before Lacheneur’s house stood a group of about a 
dozen persons, and M. Lacheneur was speaking and 
gesticulating excitedly. 

What was he saying? Neither the baron nor the priest 
could distinguish his words, but when he ceased, the 
most vociferous acclamations rent the air. 

Suddenly a match glowed between his fingers ; he set 
tire to a bundle of straw and tossed it upon the thatched 
roof of his cottage, crying out in a terrible voice : 

“The die is cast! This will prove to you that I shall 
not draw back !“ 

Five minutes later the house was in flames. 

In the distance the baron and his companion saw the 
windows of th^ citadel at Montaignac illuminated by a 
red glare, and upon every hillside glowed the light of 
other incendiary fires. 

The country was responding to Lacheneur’s signal I 


CHAPTER XX. 

Ah ! ambition is a fine thing ! 

The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtor- 
nieu were past middle age ; their lives had been marked 
by many storms and vicissitudes ; they were the posses- 
sors of millions, and the owners of the most sumptuous 
residences in the province. Under these circumstances 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


173 


one might have supposed that they would desire to end 
their days in peace and quietness. 

It would have been easy for them to create a life of 
happiness by doing good to those around them, and by 
preparing for their last hours a chorus of benedictions 
and of regrets. 

But no. They longed to have a hand in managing the 
ship of state ; they were not content to be simply pas- 
sengers. 

And the duke, appointed to the command of the mili- 
tary forces, and the marquis, made presiding judge of 
the court at Montaignac, were both obliged to leave their 
beautiful homes and take up their abode in rather dingy 
quarters in town. 

They did not murmur at the change ; their vanity was 
satisfied. Louis XVIII. was on the throne ; their preju- 
dices were triumphant ; they were happy. 

It is true that dissatisfaction was rife on every side, 
but had they not hundreds and thousands of allies at • 
hand to suppress it?, * 

And when wise and thoughtful persons spoke of “dis- 
content,” the duke and his associates regarded them as 
visionaries. 

Oil the 4th of March, 1816, the duke was just sitting 
down to dinner when a ' loud noise was heard in the 
vestibule. 

He rose — but at that very instant the door was fiung 
open and a man entered, panting and breathless. 

This man was Chupin, the former poacher, whom M. 
de Sairmeuse had elevated to the position of head game- 
keeper. 

It was evident that something extraordinary had hap- 
pened. 


174 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What is it?” inquired the duke. 

“They are coming!” cried Chupin; “they are already 
on the way !” 

“Who?— who?” 

By way of response, Chupin handed the duke a copy 
of the letter written by Martial under Chanlouineau's 
dictation. 

M. de Sairmeuse read : 

“My dear Friend— We are at last agreed, and the 
marriage is decided. We are now busy in preparing for 
the wedding, which will take place on the fourth of 
March.” 

The date was no longer blank ; but still the duke did 
not comprehend. 

“Well, what of it?” he demanded. 

Chupin tore his hair. 

“They are on the way,” he repeated. “I speak of the 
peasants — they intend to take possession of Montaignac, 
dethrone Louis XVIII., bring back the emperor, or, at 
least, the son of the emperor — miserable wretches ! they 
have deceived me. I suspected this outbreak, but I did 
not think it was so near at hand.” 

This terrible blow, so entirely unexpected, stupefied 
the duke for a moment. 

“How many are there?” he demanded. 

“Ah ! how do I know, monsieur? Two thousand, per 
haps — perhaps ten thousand.” 

“All the townspeople are with us.” 

“No, monsieur, no. The rebels have accomplices here. 
All the retired officers stand ready to assist them.” 

“Who are the leaders of the movement?” 

“Lacheneur, Abbe Midon, Chanlouineau, Baron d’Es- 
corval — ” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


175 

“Enough!” cried the duke. 

Now that danger was certain, his coolness returned ; 
and his herculean form, a trifle bowed by the weight of 
years, rose to its full height. 

He gave the bell-rope a violent pull ; a valet appeared. 

“My uniform!” commanded M. de Sairmeuse; “my 
pistols! Quick!” 

The servant was about to obey, when the duke ex- 
claimed : 

“Wait! Let some one take a horse, and go and tell 
my son to come here without a moment’s delay. Take 
one of the swiftest horses. The messenger ought to go to 
Sairmeuse and return in two hours.” 

Chupin endeavored to attract the duke’s attention by 
pulling the skirt of his coat. M. de Sairmeuse turned. 

“What is it?” 

The old poacher put his finger on his lip, recommend- 
ing silence, but as soon as the valet had left the room, 
he said : “It is useless to send for the marquis.” 

“And why, you fool?” 

“Because, monsieur, because — excuse me — I — ” 

“Zounds ! will you speak, or will you not?” 

Chupin regretted that he had gone so far. 

“Because the marquis — ” 

“Well?” 

“He is engaged in it.” 

The duke overturned the table with a terrible blow c : 
his clinched fist. 

“You lie, wretch!” he thundered, with the most ter- 
rible oaths. 

He was so formidable in his anger that the old poacher 
sprang to the door and turned the knob, ready to take 
flight. 


176 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“May I lose my head if I do not speak the truth,*’ he 
insisted. ‘Ah ! Lacheneur’s daughter is a regular sor- 
ceress. All the gallants of the neighborhood are in the 
ranks; Chanlouineau, young D’EscorTal, your son— ” 

M. de Sairmeuse was pouring forth a torrent of curses 
upon Marie- Anne, when his valet re-entered the room. 

He suddenly checked himself, put on his imiform, and 
ordering Chupin to follow him, hastened from the house. 

He was still hoping that Chupin had exaggerated the 
danger ; but when he reached the Place d’ Armes, which 
commanded an extended view of the surrounding coun- 
try, his illusions were put to flight. 

Signal lights gleamed upon every side. Montaignac 
seemed surrounded by a circle of flame. 

“These are the signals,” murmured Chupin. “The 
rebels will be here before two o’clock in the morning.” 

The duke made no response, but hastened to consult 
M. de Courtornieu. 

He was striding toward his friend’s house when, on 
hastily turning a corner, he saw two men talking in a 
doorway, and on seeing the glittering of the duke’s 
epaulets, both of them took flight. 

The duke instinctively started in pursuit, overtook 
one man, and seizing him by the collar, he asked, 
sternly : “"Who are you? What is your name?”’ 

The man was silent, and his captor shook him so 
roughly that two pistols, which had been hidden under 
his long coat, fell to the ground. 

Ah, brigand !” exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse ; *‘so you 
are one of the conspirators against the king !” 

Then, without another word, he dragged the man to 
the citadel, gave him in charge of the astonished sol- 
diers, and again started for M. de Courtornieu’s house. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


177 


He expected the marquis would be terrified; not in 
the least ; he seemed delighted. 

“At last there comes an opportunity for us to display 
our devotion and our zeal — and without danger ! We 
have good walls, strong gates, and three thousand sol- 
diers at our command. These peasants are fools ! But 
be grateful for their folly, my dear duke, and run and 
order out the Montaignac chasseurs — ” 

But suddenly a cloud overspread his face ; he knit his 
brows, and added : 

“The devil! T am expecting Blanche this evening. 
She was to leave Courtornieu after dinner. Heaven 
grant that she may meet with no misfortune on the 
way !” 


CHAPTER XXi: 

The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtor- 
nieu had more time before them than they supposed. 

The rebels were advancing, but not so rapidly as 
Chupin had said. 

Two circumstance, which it was impossible to foresee, 
disarranged Lacheneur’s plans. 

Standing beside his burning house, Lacheneur counted 
.the signal fires that blazed out in answer to his own. 

Their number corresponded to his expectations; he 
uttered a cry of joy. 

“All our friends keep their word!” he exclaimed, 
“They are ready; they are even now on their way to 
the rendezvous. Let us start at once, for we must be 
there first!” 

They brought him his horse, and his foot was already 


178 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


in the stirrup, when two men sprang from the neighbor- 
ing grove and darted toward him. One of them seized 
the horse by the bridle. 

“Abbe Midon!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in profound 
astonishment — ‘ ‘M. d’Escorval ! ’ ’ 

And foreseeing, perhaps, what was to come, he added, 
in a tone of concentrated fury : 

“What do you two men want with me?” 

“We wish to prevent the accomplishment of an act 
of madness!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “Hatred has 
crazed you, Lacheneur!” 

“You know nothing of my projects !” 

“Do you think that I do not suspect them? You hope 
to capture Montaignac — ” 

“What does that matter to you?” interrupted Lache- 
neur, violently. 

But M. d’Escorval would not be silenced. 

He seized the arm of his former friend, and in a voice 
loud enough to be heard distinctly by every one present, 
he continued; 

“Foolish man ! You have forgotten that Montaignac 
is a fortified city, protected by deep moats and high 
walls ! You have forgotten that behind these fortifica- 
tions is a garrison commanded by a man whose energy 
and valor are beyond all question— the Duke de Sair- 
meuse.” 

Lacheneur struggled to free himself from his friend’s 
grasp. 

“Everything has been arranged,” he replied, “and 
they are expecting us at Montaignac. You would be as 
sure of this as I am myself, if you had seen the light 
gleaming on the windows of the citadel. And look, you 
can see it yet. This light tells me that two or three hun- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


179 


dred retired officers will come to open the gates of the 
city for us as soon as we make our appearance.” 

“And after that! If you take Montaignac, what will 
you do then? Do you suppose that the English will give 
you back your emperor? Is not Napoleon II. the prisoner 
of the Austrians. Have you forgotten that the allied 
sovereigns have left one hundred and fifty thousand sol- 
diers within a day’s march of Paris?” 

Sullen murmurs were heard among Lacheneur’s fol- 
lowers. 

“But all this is nothing,” continued the baron. “The 
chief danger lies in the fact that there are as many 
traitors as dupes in an undertaking of this sort.” 

“Whom do you call dupes, monsieur?” 

“All those who take their illusions for realities, as you 
have done; all those who, because they desire anything 
very much, really believe that it will come to pass. Do 
you really suppose that neither the Duke de Sairmeuse 
nor the Marquis de Courtornieu has been warned of it?” 

Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. 

“Who could have warned them?” 

But his tranquillity was feigned; the look which he 
cast upon Jean proved it. 

And it was in the coldest possible tone that he added : 

“It is probable that at this very hour the duke and the 
marquis are in the power of our friends.” 

The cure now attempted to join his efforts to those of 
the baron. 

“You will not go, Lacheneur,” he said. “You will not 
remain deaf to the voice of reason. You are an honest 
man ; think of the frightful responsibility you assume ! 
What ! upon these frail hopes, you dare to peril the lives 
of hundreds of brave men? I tell you that you will not 


180 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


succeed ; you will be betrayed ; I am sure you will be 
betrayed I” 

An expression of horror contracted Lacheneur’s feat- 
ures. It was evident to all that he was deeply moved. 

It is impossible to say what might have happened had 
it not been for the intervention of Chanlouineau. 

This sturdy peasant came forward, brandishing his 
gun. 

“We are wasting too much time in foolish prattling,’^ 
he exclaimed, with a fierce oath. 

Lacheneur started as if he had been struck by a whip. 
He rudely freed himseU and leaped into the saddle. 

“Forward I” he ordered. 

But the baron and the priest did not yet despair ; they 
sprang to the horse’s head. 

“Lacheneur,” cried the prie^c, “beware! The blood 
you are about to spill will fall upon your head, and upon 
the heads of your children !” 

Appalled by these prophetic words, the little band 
paused. Then some one issued from the ranks, clad in 
the costume of a peasant. 

“Marie-Anne !” exclaimed the abbe and the baron, in 
the same breath. 

“Yes, I,” exclaimed the young girl, removing the 
large hat which had partially concealed her face; “I 
wish to share the dangers of those who are dear to me — 
share In their victory or their defeat. Your counsel comes 
too late, gentlemen. Do you see those lights on the hori- 
zon? They tell us that the people of these communes 
are repairing to the crossroads at the Croix d’Arcy, the 
general i-sndezvous. Before two o’clock fifteen hundred 
men will be gathered there awaiting my father’s com- 
mands. Would you have him leave these men, whom 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


181 


he has called from their peaceful firesides, without a 
leader ? Impossible ! ’ ’ 

She evidently shared the madness of her lover and 
father, even if she did not share all their hopes. 

“No, there must be no more hesitation, no more par- 
leying,” she continued. “Prudence now would be the 
height of folly. There is more danger in a retreat than 
in an advance. Do not try to detain my father, gentle- 
men ; each moment of delay may, perhaps, cost a man’s 
life. And now, my friends, forward I” A loud cheer 
answered her, and the little band descended the hill. 

But M. d’Escorval could not allow his own son, whom 
he saw in the ranks, to depart thus. “Maurice 1” he cried. 

The young man hesitated, but at last approached. 

“You will not follow these madmen, Maurice?” said 
the baron. 

‘ I must follow them, father.” 

“I forbid it.” 

“Alas ! father, I cannot obey you. I have promised— 
I have sworn. I am second in command.” 

His voice was sad, but it was determined. 

“My son I” exclaimed M. d’Escorval; “unfortunate 
child !— it is to certain death that you are marching— to 
certain death !” 

“All the more reason that I should not break my word, 
father.” 

“And your mother, Maurice, the mother whom you 
forget I” 

A tear glittered in the young man’s eye. 

“My mother,” he replied, “would rather weep for her 
dead son, than keep him near her dishonored and branded 
with the names of coward and traitor. Farewell, my 


father I” 


182 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


M. d’Escorval appreciated the nobility of soul that 
Maurice displayed in his conduct. He extended his 
arms, and pressed his beloved son convulsively to his 
heart, feeling that it might be for the last time. 

“Farewell!” he faltered, “farewell!” 

Maurice soon rejoined his comrades, whose acclama- 
tions were growing fainter and fainter in the distance ; 
but the baron stood motionless, overwhelmed with sor- 
row. Suddenly he started from his reverie. 

“A single hope remains, abbe !” he cried. 

“Alas !” murmured the priest. 

“Oh! I am not mistaken. Marie- Anne just told us 
the place of rendezvous. By running to Escorval and 
harnessing the cabriolet, we might be able to reach the 
Croix d’ Arcy before this party arrive there. Your voice, 
which touched Lacheneur, will touch the hearts of his 
accomplices. We will persuade these poor, misguided 
men to return to their homes. Come, abbe; come 
quickly !” 

And they departed on the run. 


CHAPTER XXH. 

The clock in the tower at Sairmeuse was striking the 
hour of eight when Lacheneur and his little band of 
followers left the Reche. 

An hour later, at the Chateau de Courtornieu, Mdlle. 
Blanche, after finishing her dinner, ordered the carriage 
to convey her to Montaignac. Since her father had 
taken up his abode in town they met only on Sunday ; 
on that day either Blanche went to Montaignac, or the 
marquis paid a visit to the chateau. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


183 


Hence this proposed journey was a deviation from 
the regular order of things. It was explained, however, 
by grave circumstances. It was six days since Martial 
had presented himself at Courtornieu ; and Blanche was 
half crazed with grief and rage. 

What Aunt Medea was forced to endure during this 
interval, only poor dependents in rich families can un- 
derstand. 

For the first three days Mdlle. Blanche succeeded in 
preserving a semblance of self-control, on the fourth she 
could endure it no longer, and, in spite of the breach of 
les convenances which it involved, she sent a messenger 
to Sairmeuse to inquire for Martial. Was he ill — had he 
gone away? 

The messenger was informed that the marquis was 
perfectly well; but, as he spent the entire day, from 
early morn to dewy eve, in hunting, he went to bed 
every evening as soon as supper was over. 

What a horrible insult I Still, she was certain that 
Martial, on hearing what she had done, would hasten to 
her to make his excuses. 

Vain hope ! He did not come ; he did not even con- 
descend to give one sign of life. 

“Ah! doubtless he is with her,” she said to Aunt 
Medea. “He is on his knees before that miserable 
Marie-Anne — his mistress.” 

For she had finished by believing — as is not unfre- 
quently the case — the very calumnies which she herself 
had invented. 

In this extremity she decided to make her father her 
confidant; and she wrote him a note announcing her 
coming. 

She wished her father to compel Lacheneur to leave 


184 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the country. Tliis would be an easy matter for him, 
since he was armed with discretionary authority at an 
epoch when lukewarm dev’^otion afforded an abundant 
excuse for sending a man into exile. 

Fully decided upon this plan, Blanche became calmer 
on leaving the chateau ; and her hopes overflowed in in- 
coherent phrases, to which poor Aunt Medea listened 
with her accustomed resignation. 

“At last I shall be rid of this shameless creature !” she 
exclaimed. “We will see if he has the audacity to fol- 
low her ! Will he follow her? Oh, no, he dare not !“ 

When the carriage passed through the village of Sair- 
meuse, Mdlle. Blanche noticed an unwonted animation. 

There were lights in every house, the saloons seemed 
full of drinkers, and groups of people were standing 
upon the public square and upon the doorsteps. 

But what did this matter to Mdlle. de CoiirtomieuJ It 
was not until they were a mile or more from Sairmeuse 
that she was startled from her reverie. 

“Listen, Aunt Medea,” she said, suddenly. “Do you 
hear anything?” 

The poor dependent listened attentively. Both occu- 
pants of the carriage heard shouts that became more and 
more distinct with each revolution of the wheels. 

“Let us find out the meaning of this,” said Mdlle. 
Blanche. And lowering one of the carriage windows, 
she asked the coachman the cause of the disturbance. 

“I see a great crowd of peasants on the hill ; they have 
torches, and — ” 

“Blessed Jesus !” interrupted Aunt Medea, in alarm. 

“It must be a wedding,” added the coachman, whip- 
ping up his horses. 

It was not a wedding, but Lacheneur’s little band, 
\ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


185 


which had been augmented to the number of about five 
liundred. 

Lacheneur should have been at the Croix d’Arcy two 
hours before. But he had shared the fate of most popu- 
lar chiefs. When an impetus had been given to the 
movement he was no longer master of it. 

Baron d’Escorval had made him lose twenty minutes ; 
he was delayed four times as long in Sairmeuse. When 
he reached that village, a little behind time, he found 
the peasants scattered through the wine-shops, drinking 
to the success of the enterprise. To tear them from 
their merry-making was a long and difficult task. 

And to crown all, when they were finally induced to 
resume their line of march, it was impossible to persuade 
them to extinguish the pine- knots which they had lighted 
to serve as torches. 

Prayers and threats were alike unavailing. “They 
wished to see their way,” they said. 

Poor deluded creatures ! They had not the slightest 
conception of the difficulties and the perils of the enter- 
prise they had undertaken. 

They were going to capture a fortified city, defended 
by a numerous garrison, as if they were bound on a 
pleasure jaunt. Gay, thoughtless, and animated by the 
imperturbable confidence of a child, they were marching 
along, arm in arm, singing patriotic songs. 

On horseback, in the center of the band, M. Lacheneur 
felt his hair turning white with anguish. 

Would not this delay ruin everything? What would 
the others, who were waiting at Croix d’Arcy, think? 
What were they doing at this very moment? 

“Onward I onward !” he repeated. 

Maurice, Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie- Anne, and about 


186 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


twenty of the old soldiers of the Empire, understood and 
shared Lacheneur’s despair. They knew the terrible 
danger they were incurring, and they, too, repeated: 
‘‘Faster ! Let us march faster !” 

Vain exhortation 1 It pleased these people to go slow- 
ly. Suddenly the entire band stopped. Some of the 
peasants, chancing to look back, had seen the lamps of 
Mdlle. de Courtornieu’s carriage gleaming in the dark- 
ness. It came rapidly onward, and soon overtook them. 
The peasants recognized the coachman’s livery, and 
greeted the vehicle with shouts of derision. 

M. de Courtornieu, by his avariciousness, had made 
even more enemies than the Duke de Sairmeuse; and 
all the peasants who thought they had more or less reason 
to complain of his extortions were delighted at this op- 
portunity to frighten him. For that they were not think- 
ing of vengeance is conclusively proved by the sequel. 

Hence great was their disappointment when, on open- 
ing the carriage door, they saw within the vehicle only 
Mdlle. Blanche and Aunt Medea, who uttered the most 
piercing shrieks. 

But Mdlle. de Courtornieu was a brave woman. 

“Who are you?” she demanded, haughtily, “and what 
do you desire?” 

“You will know to-morrow,” replied Chanlouineau. 
“Until then, you are our prisoner.” 

“I see that you do not know who I am, boy.” 

“Excuse me. I do know who you are, and, for this 
very reason, I request you to descend from your car- 
riage. She must leave the carriage, must she not, M. 
d‘Escorval?” 

“Very well! I declare that I will not leave my car- 
riage ; tear me from it if you dare I” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


187 


They would certainly have dared had it not been for 
Marie- Anne, who checked some peasants as they were 
springing toward the carriage. “Let Mdlle. de Courtor- 
nieu pass without hindrance,” said she. 

But this permission might produce such serious conse- 
quences that Chanlouineau found courage to resist. 

“Tliat cannot be, Marie-Anne,” said he; “she will 
warn her father. We must keep her as a hostage ; her 
life may save the lives of our friends.” 

Mdlle. Blanche had not recognized her former friend, 
any more than she had suspected the intentions of this 
crowd of men. But Marie- Anne’s name, uttered with 
that of D’Escorval, enlightened her at once. She under- 
stood it all, and trembled with rage at the thought that 
she was at the mercy of her rival. She resolved to place 
herself under no obligation to Marie-Anne Lacheneur. 

“Very well,” said she, “we will descend.” 

Her former friend checked.her. 

“No,” said she, ' ‘no ! This is not the place for a young 
girl.” 

“For an honest young girl, you should say,” replied 
Blanche, with a sneer. 

Chanlouineau was standing only a few feet from the 
speaker with his gun in his hand. If a man had uttered 
those words he would have been instantly killed. Marie- 
Anne did not deign to notice them. 

“Mademoiselle will turn back,” she said, calmly ; “and 
as she can reach Montaignac by the other road, two men 
will accompany her as far as Courtornieu. ” 

She was obeyed. The carriage turned and rolled away, 
but not so quickly that Marie-Anne failed to hear Blanche 
cry : “Beware, Marie-Anne ! I will make you pay dearly 
for your insulting patronage I” 


188 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The hours were flying by. This incident had occupied 
ten minutes more— ten centuries— and the last trace of 
order had disappeared. 

' M. Lacheneur could have wept with rage. He called 
Maurice and Chanlouineau. 

“I place you in command,” said he; “do all that you 
can to hurry these idiots onward. I will ride as fast as I 
can to the Croix d’Arcy.” 

He started, but he was only a short distance in advance 
of his followers when he saw two men running toward 
him at full speed. One was clad in the attire of a well- 
to-do bourgeois ; the other wore the old uniform of cap- 
tain in the emperor’s guard. 

“What has happened?” Lacheneur cried, in alarm. 

“All is discovered!” 

“Great God!” 

“Major Carini has been arrested.” 

“By whom? How?” 

“Ah! there was a fatality about it! Just as we were 
perfecting our arrangements to capture the Duke de Sair- 
meuse, the duke surprised us. We fled, but the cumed 
noble pursued us, overtook Carini, seized him by the 
collar, and dragged him to the citadel.” 

Lacheneur was overwhelmed; the abbe’s gloomy 
prophecy again resounded in his ears. 

“So I warned my friends, and hastened to warn yon,” 
continued the officer. “The affair is an utter failure!” 

He was only too correct ; and Lacheneur knew it even 
better than he did. But, blinded by hatred and anger, he 
would not acknowledge that the disaster was irreparable. 
He affected a calmness which he did not in the least feel. 

“You are easily discouraged, gentlemen,” he said, bit- 
terly. “There is, a-t least, one more chance.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


189 


“The devil! Then you have resources of which we 
are ignorant?” 

“Perhaps— that depends. You have just passed the 
Croix d’Arcy ; did you tell any of those people what you 
have just told me?” 

“Not a word.” 

“How many men are there at the rendezvous?” 

“At least two thousand.” 

“And what is their mood?” 

“They are burning to begin the struggle. Tliey are 
cursing our slowness, and told me to entreat you to 
make haste.” 

“In that case our cause is not lost,” said Lacheneur, 
with a threatening gesture. “Wait here until the peas- 
ants come up, and say to them that you were sent to tell 
them to make haste. Bring them on as quickly as pos- 
sible, and have confidence in me ; I will be responsible 
for the success of the enterprise.” 

He said this, then putting spurs to his horse galloped 
away. He had deceived the men. He had no other re- 
sources. He did not have the slightest hope of success. 
It was an abominable falsehood. But, if this edifice’, 
which he had erected with such care and labor, was to 
totter and fall, he desired to be buried beneath its ruins. 
They would be defeated ; he was sure of it, but what did 
that matter? In the conflict he would seek death and 
find it. 

Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at the Croix 
d’Arcy ; and after the passing of the officers, who had 
hastened to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaig- 
nac, the murmurs of dissatisfaction were changed to 
curses. 

These peasants, nearly two thousand in number, were 


190 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


indignant at not finding their leader awaiting them at the 
rendezvous. 

“Where is he?” they asked. “Who knows but he is 
'afraid at the last moment? Perhaps he is concealing 
himself, while we are risking our lives and the bread of 
our children here.” And already the epithets of mis- 
chief-maker and traitor were flying from lip to lip, and 
increasing the anger in every breast. 

Some were of the opinion that the crowd should dis- 
perse ; others wished to march against Montaignac with- 
out Lacheneur, and that, immediately. 

But these deliberations were interrupted by the furious 
gallop of a horse. 

A carriage appeared, and stopped in the center of the 
open space. Two men alighted — Baron d’Escorval and 
Abbe Midon. 

They were in advance of Lacheneur. They thought 
they had arrived in time. Alas ! here, as on the Reche, 
all their efforts, all their entreaties, and all their threats 
were futile. They had come in the hope of arresting the 
movement ; they only precipitated it. 

“We have gone too far to draw back,” exclaimed one 
of the neighboring farmers, who was the recognized 
leader in Lacheneur ’s absence. “If death is before us, 
it is also behind us. To attack and conquer — that is our 
only hope of salvation. Forward, then, at once. That 
is the only way of disconcerting our enemies. He who 
hesitates is a coward ! Forward !” 

A shout of approval from two thousand throats re- 
plied: “Forward!” 

They imfurled the tri-color, that much regretted flag 
that reminded them of so much glory, and so many 
great misfortunes : the drums began to beat, and with 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


191 


shouts of : “Vive Napoleon II. !’’ the vc^hole column took 
up its line of march. 

Pale, with clothing in disorder, and voices husky with 
fatigue and emotion, M. d’Escorval and the abbe followed 
the rebels, imploring them to listen to reason. They saw 
the precipice toward which these misguided creatures 
were rushing, and they prayed God for an inspiration 
to check them. 

In fifty minutes the distance separating the Croix 
d’Arcy from Montaignac is traversed. 

Soon they see the gate of the citadel, which was to 
have been opened for them by their friends within the 
walls. 

It is eleven o’clock, and yet this gate stands open. 
Does not this circumstance prove that their friends are 
masters of the town, and that they are awaiting them in 
force? 

They advance, so certain of success that those who 
have guns do not even take the trouble to load them. 

M. d’Escorval and the 'abbe alone foresee the catas- 
trophe. The leader of the expedition is near them; they 
entreat him not to neglect the commonest precautions ; 
they implore him to send some two men on in advance 
to reconnoiter ; they, themselves, offer to go, on condi- 
tion that the peasants will await their return before pro-"^ 
ceeding further. 

But their prayers are unheeded. The peasants pass 
the outer line of fortifications in safety. ,The head of 
the advancing column reaches the drawbridge. The 
enthusiasm amounts to delirium ; who will be the first 
to enter is the only thought. 

Alas I at that very moment a pistol is fired. It is a 
signal, for instantly, and on every side, resounds a ter- 


192 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


rible fusillade. Three or four peasants fall, mortally- 
wounded. The rest pause, frozen with terror, thinking 
only of escape. 

The indecision is terrible; but the leader encourages 
his men, there are a few of Napoleon’s old soldiers in 
the ranks. A struggle begins, all the more frightful by 
reason of the darkness ! 

But it is not the cry of “Forward!” that suddenly 
rends the air. 

The voice of a coward sends up the cry of panic : “We 
are betrayed I Let him save himself who can 1” 

This is the end of all order. A wild fear seizes the 
throng; and these men flee madly, despairingly, scat- 
tered as withered leaves are scattered by the power of 
the tempest. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Chupin’s stupefying revelations and the thought that 
Martial, the heir of his name and dukedom, should de- 
grade himself so low as to enter into a conspiracy with 
vulgar peasants, drove the Duke de Sairmeuse nearly 
wild. 

But the Marquis de Courtornieu’s coolness restored the 
^duke’s sangfroid. He ran to the barracks, and in less 
than half an hour five hundred foot soldiers and three 
hundred of the Montaignac chasseurs were under arms. 
With these forces at his disposal it would have been easy 
enough to suppress this movement without the ’least 
bloodshed. It was only necessary to close the gates of 
the city. It was not with fowling-pieces and clubs that 
these poor peasants could force an entrance into a forti- 
fied town. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


193 


But such moderation did not suit a man of the duke’s 
violent temperament, a man who was ever longing for 
struggle and excitement, a man whose ambition prompted 
him to display his zeal. 

He had ordered the gate of the citadel to be left open, 
and had concealed some of his soldiers behind the para- 
pets of the outer fortifications. He then stationed him- 
self where he could command a view of the approach to 
the citadel, and deliberately choose his moment for giv- 
ing the signal to fire. 

Still, a strange thing happened. Of four hundred shots, 
fired into a dense crowd of fifteen hundred men, only 
three had hit the mark. More humane than their chief, 
nearly all the soldiers had fired in the air. 

But the duke had not time to investigate this strange 
occurrence now. He leaped into the saddle, and placing 
himself at the head of about five hundred men, cavalry 
and infantry, he started in pursuit of the fugitives. 

The peasants had the advantage of their pursuers by 
about twenty minutes. 

Poor, simple creatures ! They might easily have made 
their escape. They had only to disperse, to scatter ; but, 
unfortunately, the thought never once occurred to the 
majority of them. A few ran across the fields and 
gained their homes in safety; the others, frantic and 
despairing, overcome by that strange vertigo that seizes 
the bravest in moments of panic, fled like a flock of 
frightened sheep. Fear lent them wings, for did they 
not hear each moment shots fired at the laggards? 

But there was one man, who, at each of these detona- 
tions, received, as it were, his death-wound— this man 
was Lacheneur. 

He had reached the Croix d’Arcy just as the firing at 


194 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Montaignac began. He listened and waited. No dis- 
charge of musketry replied to the first fusillade. There 
might have been butchery, but combat, no. 

Lacheneur understood it all ; and he wished that every 
ball had pierced his own heart. He put spurs to his 
horse and galloped to the cross-roads. The place was 
deserted. At the entrance of one of the roads stood the 
cabriolet which had brought M. d’Escorval and the abbe. 

At last M. Lacheneur saw the fugitives approaching in 
the distance. He dashed forward to meet them, trying 
by mingled curses and insults to stay their fiight. 

“Cowards!” he vociferated, “traitors! You flee— and 
you are ten against one! Where are you going? To 
your own homes? Fools ! you will find the gendarmes 
there only awaiting your coming to conduct you to the 
scaffold. Is it not better to die with your weapons in 
your hands? Come— right about. Follow me ! We may 
still conquer. Re-enforcements are at hand ; two thou- 
sand men are following me !” 

He promised them two thousand men ; had he prom- 
ised them ten thousand, twenty thousand — an army and 
cannon, it would have made no difference. 

Not until they reached the wide open space at the 
cross-roads, where they had talked so confidently scarce- 
ly an hour before, did the most intelligent of the throng- 
regain their senses, while the others fled in every direc- 
tion. 

About a hundred of the bravest and most determined 
of the conspirators gathered around M. Lacheneur. In 
the little crowd was the abbe, gloomy and despondent. 
He had been separated from the baron. What had been 
his fate? Had he been killed or taken prisoner ! Was it 
possible that he had made his escape? 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


195 


The worthy priest dared not go away. He waited, 
hop-in g that his companion might rejoin him, and deem- 
ing himself fortunate in finding the carriage still there. 
He was still waiting when the remnant of the column 
confided to Maurice and Chanlouineau came up. 

Of the five hundred men that composed it on its depart- 
ure from Sairmeuse, only fifteen remained, including the 
two retired officers. 

Marie- Anne was in the center of this little party. 

M. Lacheneur and his friends were trying to decide 
what course it was*best for them to pursue. Should 
each man go his way? or should they unite, and by an 
obstinate resistance, give all their comrades time to reach 
their homes? 

The voice of Chanlouineau put an end to all hesitation. 

“I have come to fight,” he exclaimed, “and I shall sell 
my life dearly.” 

“We will make a stand, then !” cried the others. 

But Chanlouineau did not follow them to the spot which 
they had considered best adapted for a prolonged defense ; 
he called Maurice and drew him a little aside. 

“You, Monsieur d’Escorval,” he said, almost roughly, 
“are going to leave here at once.” 

“I — I came here, Chanlouineau, as you did, to do my 
duty.” 

“Your duty, monsieur, is to serve Marie- Anne. Go at 
once, and take her with you.” 

“I shall remain,” said Maurice, firmly. 

He was going to join his comrades when Chanlouineau 
stopped him. 

“You have no right to sacrifice your life here,” he said 
quietly. “Your life belongs to the woman who has given 
herself to you.” 


196 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Wretch ! how dare you !” 

Chanlouineau sadly shook his head. 

“What is the use of denying it?” said he. “It was so 
great a temptation that only an angel could have re- 
sisted it. It was not your fault, nor was it hers. Lache- 
neur was a bad father. There was a day when I wished 
either to kill myself or to kill you, I knew not which. 
Ah ! only once again will you be as near death as you 
were that day. You were scarcely five paces from the 
muzzle of my gun. It was God who stayed my hand by 
reminding me of her despair. Now that I am to die, as 
well as Lacheneur, some one must care for Marie- Anne. 
Swear that you will marry her. You may be involved 
in some difficulty on account of this affair ; but I have 
here the means of saving you. ” 

A sound of firing interrupted him ; the soldiem of the 
Duke de Sairmeuse were approaching. 

“Good Godl” exclaimed Chanlouineau, “and Marie- 
Anne !” 

They rushed in pursuit of her, and Maurice was the 
first to discover her, standing in the center of the open 
space clinging to the neck of her father’s horse. He took 
her in his arms, trying to drag her away. 

“Come!” said he, “come!” 

But she refused. 

“Leave me, leave me !” she entreated. 

“But all is lost !” 

“Yes, I know that all is lost — even honor. Leave me 
here. I must remain; I must die, and thus hide my 
shame. It must, it shall be so!” 

Just then Chanlouineau appeared. Had he divined 
the secret of her resistance? Perhaps; but without ut- 
tering a word, he lifted her in his strong arms, as if she 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


197 


had been a child, and bore her to the carriage guarded 
by Abbe Midon. 

“Get in,” he said, addressing the priest, “and qidck — 
take Mademoiselle Lacheneur. Now, Maurice, in your 
turn!” 

But already the duke’s soldiers were masters of the 
jiield. Seeing a group in the shadow, at a little distance, 
they rushed to the spot. 

The heroic Chanlouineau seized his gun, and brandish- 
ing it like a club held the enemy at bay, giving Maurice 
time to spring into the carriage, catch the reins and start 
the horse off at a gallop. 

All the cowardice and all the heroism displayed on 
that terrible night will never be really known. 

Two minutes after the departure of Marie- Anne and 
of Maurice, Chanlouineau was still battling with the foe. 
A dozen or more soldiers were in front of him. Twenty 
shots had been fired, but not a ball had struck him. His 
enemies almost believed him invulnerable. 

‘ ‘Surrender 1” cried the soldiers, amazed by such valor ; 
“surrender!” 

“Never! never!” 

He was truly formidable ; he brought to the support 
of his marvelous courage a superhuman strength and 
agility. No one dared come within reach of those 
brawny arms, that revolved with the power and veloc- 
ity of the sails of a windmill. 

Then it was that a solider, confiding his musket to the 
care of a comrade, threw himself flat on his belly, and 
crawling unobserved around behind this obscure hero, 
seized him by the legs. He tottered like an oak beneath 
the blow of the ax, struggled furiously, but taken at such 
a disadvantage was thrown to the ground, crying, as he 


198 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


fell: “Help! friends, help!” But no one responded to 
this appeal. 

At the other end of the open space those upon whom 
he called had, after a desperate struggle, yielded. 

The main body of the duke’s infantry was near at 
hand. The rebels heard the drums beating the charge ; 
they could see the bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. 

Lacheneur, who had remained in the same spot, utterly 
ignoring the shot that whistled around him, felt that his 
few remaining comrades were about to be exterminated. 

In that supreme moment the whole past was revealed 
to him as by a flash of lightning. He read and judged 
his own heart. Hatred had led him to crime. He loathed 
himself for the humiliation which he had imposed upon 
his daughter. He cursed himself for the falsehoods by 
which he had deceived these brave men, for whose death 
he would be accountable. 

Enough blood had flowed; he must save those who 
remained. 

“Cease firing, my friends,” he commanded ; “retreat !” 

They obeyed— he could see them scatter in every direc- 
tion. He, too, could flee ; was he not mounted upon a 
gallant steed, which would bear him beyond the reach 
of the enemy? 

But he had sworn that he would not survive defeat. 
Maddened with remorse, despair, sorrow and impotent 
rage, he saw no refuge save in death. 

He had only to wait for it ; it was fast approaching ; 
he preferred to rush to meet it. Gathering up the reins, 
he dashed the rowels in his steed and, alone, charged 
upon the enemy. 

The shock was rude, the ranks opened, there was a 
moment of confusion. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


199 


But Laclieneur’s horse, its chest cut open by the bay- 
onets, reared, beat the air with its hoofs, then fell back- 
ward, burying its rider beneath him. 

And the soldiers marched on, not suspecting that be- 
neath the body of the horse the brave rider was strug- 
gling to free himself. 

It was half -past one in the morning — the place was 
deserted. Nothing disturbed the silence save the moans 
of a few wounded men, who called upon their comrades 
for succor. 

But before thinking of the wounded, M. de Sairmeuse ' 
must decide upon the course which would be most likely 
to redound to his advantage and to his political glory. 

Now that the insurrection had been suppressed, it was 
necessary to exaggerate its magnitude as much as pos- 
sible, in order that his reward should be in proportion to 
the service supposed to have been rendered. 

Some fifteen or twenty rebels had been captured ; but 
that was not a sufficient number to give to the victory 
the eclat which he desired. He must find more culprits 
to drag before the provost-marshal or before a military 
commission. 

He therefore divided his troops into several detach- 
ments, and sent them in every direction, with orders to 
explore the villages, search all isolated houses, and arrest 
all suspected persons. 

His task here having been completed, he again recom- 
mended the most implacable severity, and started on a 
brisk trot for Montaignac. 

He was delighted ; certainly he blessed — as had M. de 
Courtornieu — these honest and artless conspirators ; but 
one fear, which he vainly tried to dismiss, impaired his 
satisfaction. 


200 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


His son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse, was he, or was he 
not, implicated in this conspiracy? 

He could not, he would not, believe it; and yet the 
recollection of Chupin’s assurance troubled him. 

On the other hand, what could have become of Mar- 
tial? The servant who had been sent to warn him — had 
he met him? Was the marquis returning? And by 
which road? Could it be possible that he had fallen 
into the hands of the peasants? 

The duke’s relief was intense when, on returning home 
after a conference with M. de Courtomieu, he learned 
that Martial had arrived about a quarter of an hour 
before. 

“The marquis went at once to his own room on dis- 
mounting from his horse,” added the servant. 

“Very well,” replied the duke. “I will seek him 
there.” 

Before the servants he said, “Very well;” but secret- 
ly, he exclaimed: “Abominable impertinence! What; 
I am on horseback at the head of my troops, my life im- 
periled, and my son goes quietly to bed without even 
assuring himself of my safety !” 

He reached his son’s room, but found the door closed 
and locked on the inside. He rapped. 

“Who is there?” demanded Martial. 

“It is I; open the door.” 

Martial drew the bolt ; M. de Sairmeuse entered, but 
the sight that met his gaze made him tremble. 

Upon the table was a basin of blood, and Martial, with 
chest bared, was bathing a large wound in his right 
breast. 

“You have been fighting!” exclaimed the duke, in a 
husky voice. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


201 


*‘Yes.” 

“Ah ! — then you were, indeed — 

“I was where?— what?” 

“At the convocation of these miserable peasants, who, 
in their parricidal folly, have dared to dream of the 
overthrow of the best of princes !” 

Martial’s face betrayed successively profound surprise, 
and a more violent desire to laugh. 

“I think you must be jesting, monsieur,” he replied. 

The young man’s words and manner reassured the 
duke a little, without entirely dissipating his suspicions. 

“Then these vile rascals attacked you?” he exclaimed. 

“Not at all. I have simply been obliged ’to fight a 
duel.” 

“With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to 
insult you?” 

A faint fiush tinged Martial’s cheek ; but it was in his 
usual careless tone that he replied : 

“Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name. You 
would trouble him, perhaps ; and I really owe the fellow 
a debt of gratitude. It happened upon the highway ; he 
might have assassinated me without ceremony, but he 
ofiered me open combat. Besides, he was wounded far 
more severely than I. ’ ’ 

All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had returned. 

“And why, instead of summoning a physician, are you 
attempting to dress this wound yourself?” 

“Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep 
it a secret.” 

The duke shook his head. 

“All this is scarcely plausible,” he remarked; “espe- 
cially after the assurance of your complicity, which I 
have received.” 


202 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Ah!” said he; “and from whom? From your spy- 
in-chief, no doubt — that rascal Chupin. It surprises me 
to see that you can hesitate for a moment between the 
word of your son and the stories of such a wretch. ” 

“Do not speak ill of Chupin, marquis; he is a very 
useful man. Had it not been for him, we should have 
been taken unawares. It was through him that I learned 
of this vast conspiracy organized by Lacheneur — ” 

“What ! is it Lacheneur — ” 

“Who is at the head of the movement? — yes, marquis. 
Ah 1 your usual discernment has failed you in this in- 
stance. What I you have been a constant visitor at this 
house, and you have suspected nothing? And you con- 
template a diplomatic career ! But this is not all. You 
know now for what purpose the money which you so 
lavishly bestowed upon them has been employed. They 
have used it to purchase guns, powder and ammunition.” 

The duke had become satisfied of the injustice of his 
suspicions ; but he was now endeavoring to irritate his 
son. 

It was a fruitless effort. Martial knew very well that 
he had been duped, but he did not think of resenting it. 

“If Lacheneur has been captured,” he thought ; “if he 
should be condemned to death, and if I should save him, 
Marie- Anne would refuse me nothing.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Having penetrated the mystery that enveloped his 
son’s frequent absence, the Baron d’Escorval had con- 
cealed his fears and his chagrin from his wife. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


203 


It was the first time that he had ever had a secret from 
the faithful and courageous companion of his existence. 

Without warning her, he went to beg Abbe Midon to 
follow him to the Reche, to the house of M. Lacheneur. 

This silence, on his part, explains Mme. d’Escorval’s 
astonishment when, on the arrival of the dinner-hour, 
neither her son nor her husband appeared. 

Maurice was sometimes late; but the baron, like all 
great workers, was punctuality itself. What extraordi- 
nary thing could have happened? 

Her surprise became uneasiness when she learned that 
her husband had departed in company with Abbe Midon. 
They had harnessed the horse themselves, and instead of 
driving through the court-yard as usual, they had driven 
through the stable-yard into a lane leading to the public 
road. V/hat did all this mean ? Why these strange pre- 
cautions? Mme. d’Escorval waited, oppressed by vague 
forebodings. 

The servants shared her anxiety. The baron was so 
equable in temper, so kind and just to his inferiors, that 
his servants adored him, and would have gone through 
a fiery furnace for him.' 

So, about ten o’clock, they hastened to lead to their 
mistress a peasant who was returning from Sairmeuse. 

This man, who was slightly intoxicated, told the 
strangest and most incredible stories. 

He said that all the peasantry for ten leagues around 
were under arms, and that the Baron d’Escorval was the 
leader of the revolt. 

He did not doubt the final success of the movement, 
declaring that Napoleon II., Marie Louise, and all the 
marshals of the empire were concealed in Montaignac. 

Alas! it must be confessed that Lacheneur had not 


204 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


hesitated to utter the grossest falsehoods in his anxiety 
to gain followers. 

Mme. d’Escorval could not be deceived by these ridicu- 
lous stories, but she could believe, and she did believe, 
that the baron was the prime mover in this insurrection. 

And this belief, which would have carried consterna- 
tion to the hearts of so many women, reassured her. 

She had entire, absolute and unlimited faith in her 
husband. She believed him superior to all other men — 
infallible, in short. The moment he said: “This is so!” 
she believed it implicitly. 

Hence, if her husband had organized a movement, that 
movement was right. If he had attempted it, it was 
because he expected to succeed. Therefore, it was sure 
to succeed. 

Impatient, however, to know the result, she sent the 
gardener to Sairmeuse with orders to obtain information 
without awakening suspicion, if possible, and to hasten 
back as soon as he could learn anything of a positive 
nature. He returned in about two horirs, pale, fright- 
ened and in tears. 

The disaster had already become known, and had been 
related to him with the most terrible exaggerations. He 
had been told that hundreds of men had been killed, and 
that a whole army was scouring the country, massacring 
defenseless peasants and their families. 

While he was telling his story, Mme. d'Escorval felt 
that she was going mad. 

She saw — yes, positively, she saw her son and her hus- 
band dead — or still worse, mortally wounded upon the 
public highway— they were lying with their arms crossed 
upon their breasts, livid, bloody, their eyes staring wild- 
ly— they were begging for water— a drop of water. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


205 


“I will find them !” she exclaimed, in frenzied accents. 
“I will go to the field of battle, 1 will seek for them 
among the dead until I find them. Light some torches, 
my friends, and come with me, for you will aid me, 
will you not? You loved them ; they were so good ! 
You would not leave their dead bodies unburied ! Oh I 
the wretches ! the wretches who have killed them !” 

The servants were hastening to obey, when the furious 
gallop of a horse and the sound of carriage-wheels were 
heard upon the drive. 

“Here they are!” exclaimed the gardener, “here they 
are !” 

Mme. d’Escorval, followed by the servants, rushed to 
the door just in time to see a cabriolet enter the court- 
yard, and the horse, panting, exhausted, and flecked with 
foam, miss his footing and fall. 

Abbe Midon and Maurice had already leaped to the 
ground, and were lifting out an apparently lifeless body. 

Even Marie- Anne’s great energy had not been able to 
resist so many successive shocks ; the last trial had over- 
whelmed her. Once in the carriage, all immediate dan- 
ger having disappeared, the excitement which had sus- 
tained her fled. She became unconscious, and all the 
efforts of Maurice and of the priest had failed to restore 
her. 

But Mme. d’Escorval did not recognize Mdlle. Lache- 
neur in the masculine habiliments in which she was 
clothed. 

She only saw that it was not her husband whom they 
had brought with them ; and a convulsive shudder shook 
her from head to foot. 

“Your father, Maurice !” she exclaimed, in a stifled 
voice; “and your father?” 


206 


MONSIEUR LECOQ, 


The effect was terrible. Until that moment, Maurice 
and the cure had comforted themselves with the hope 
that M. d’Escorval would reach home before them. 

Maurice tottered and almost dropped his precious bur- 
den. The abbe perceived it, and at a sign from him two 
servants gently lifted Marie-Anne and bore her to the 
house. 

Then the cure approached Mme. d’Escorval. 

“Monsieur will soon be here, madame,” said he, at 
hazard; “he fled first — ” 

“Baron d’Escorval could not have fled,” she inter- 
rupted. “A general does not desert when face to face 
with the enemy. If a panic seizes his soldiers, he rushes 
to the front, and either leads them back to combat or 
takes his own life.” 

“Mother!” faltered Maurice ; “mother!” ^ 

“Oh ! do not try to deceive me. My husband was the 
organizer of this conspiracy— his confederates, beaten 
and dispersed, must have proved themselves cowards. 
God have mercy upon me, my husband is dead 1” 

In spite of the abbe’s quickness of perception, be could 
not \mderstand such assertions on the part of the baron- 
ess ; he thought that sorrow and terror must have de- 
stroyed her reason. 

; “Ah! madame,” he exclaimed, “the baron had noth- 
ing to do with this movement; far from it—” 

He paused ; all this was passing in the court-yard, in 
the glare of the torches which had been lighted up by 
the servants. Any one in the public road could hear 
and see all. He realized the imprudence of which they 
were guilty. 

“Come, madame,” said he, leading the baroness to- 
ward the house, “and you also, Maurice; come.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


207 


It was with the silent and passive submission of great 
misery that Mme. d^Escorval obeyed the cure. 

Her body alone moved in mechanical obedience ; her 
mind and heart were flying through space to the man 
who was her all, and whose mind and heart were even 
then, doubtless, calling to her from the dread abyss into 
which he had fallen. • 

But when she had passed the threshold of the draw- 
ing-room, she trembled, and dropped the priest’s arm, 
rudely recalled to the present reality. 

She recognized Marie- Anne in the lifeless form ex- 
tended upon the sofa. 

“Mdlle. Lacheneur!” she faltered, “here in this cos- 
tume — dead !” 

One might indeed believe the poor girl dead, to see 
her lying there rigid, cold, and as white as if the last 
drop of blood had been drained from her veins. Her 
beautiful face had the immobility of marble ; her half- 
opened, colorless lips disclosed teeth convulsively 
clinched, and a large dark blue circle surrounded her 
closed eyelids. 

Her long black hair, which she had rolled up closely 
to slip under her peasant’s hat, had become unbound, 
and flowed down in rich masses over her shoulders 
and trailed upon the floor. 

“She is only in a state of syncope; there is no dan- 
ger,” declared the abbe, after he had examined Marie- 
Anne. “It will not be long before she regains conscious- 
ness.” 

And then, rapidly but clearly, he gave the necessary 
directions to the servants, who were astonished at their 
mistress. 

Mme. d’Escorval looked on with eyes dilated with ter- 


208 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ror. She seemed to doubt her own sanity, and inces- 
santly passed her hand across her forehead, thickly 
beaded with cold sweat. * 

“What a night !” she murmured. “What a night I” 

“I must remind you, madame,” said the priest, sym- 
pathizingly, but firmly, “that reason and duty alike 
forbid you thus to yield to despair! Wife, where is 
your energy? Christian, what has become of your 
confidence in a just and beneficent God?” 

“Oh ! I have courage, monsieur,” faltered the wretched 
woman. “I am brave !” 

The abbe led her to a large arm-chair, where he forced 
her to seat herself, and, in a gentler tone, he resumed ; 

“Besides, why should you despair, madame? Your 
son, certainly, is witlf you in safety. Your husband 
has not compromised himself ; he has done nothing 
which I, myself, have not done.” 

And briefly, biit with rare precision, he explained the 
part which he and the baron had plaj^ed during this un- 
fortunate evening. 

But this recital, instead of reassuring the baroness, 
seemed to increase her anxiety. 

“I understand you,” she interrupted, “and I believe 
you. But I also know that all the people in the country 
round about are convinced that my husband commanded 
the insurrectionists. They believe it, and they will say it.” 

“And what of that?” 

“If he has been arrested, as you giv^^e me to under- 
stand, he will be summoned before a court-martial. Was 
he not the friend of the emperor? That is a crime, as 
you very well know. He will be convicted and sen- 
tenced to death.” 

“No, madame, no 1 Am I not here? I will appear be- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


209 


fore the tribunal, and I shall say; ‘Here I am!' I have 
seen and I know all.’ ” 

“But they will arrest you, alas ! monsieur, because you 
are not a priest according to the hearts of these cruel 
men. They will throw you in prison, and you will meet 
him upon the scaffold.’’ 

Maurice had been listening, pale and trembling. 

But on hearing these last words, he sank upon his 
knees, hiding his face in his hands: 

“Ah ! I have killed my father !’’ he exclaimed. 

“Unhappy child ! what do you say?” 

The priest motioned him to be silent ; but he did not 
see him , and he pursued : 

“My father was ignorant even of the existence of this 
conspiracy of which M. Lacheneur was the guiding 
spirit ; but I knew it — I wished him to succeed, because 
on his success depended the happiness of my life. And 
then — wretch that I was I — when I wished tO attract to 
our ranks some timid or wavering accomplice, I used 
the loved and respected name of D’Escorval. Ah, I was 
mad ! — I was mad !” 

Then, with a despairing gesture, he added : 

“And yet, even now, I have not the courage to curse 
my folly ! Oh, mother ! mother ! if you knew — ’’ 

His sobs interrupted him. Just then a faint moan was 
heard. 

Marie-Anne was regaining consciousness. Already 
she had partially risen from the sofa, and sat regard- 
ing this terrible scene with an air of profound wonder, 
as if she did not understand it in the least. • 

Slowly and gently she put her hair back from her face, 
and opened and closed her eyes, which seemed dazzled 
by the light of the candles. 


210 


MONSIEUPw LECOQ. 


She endeavored to speak, to ask some question, but 
Abbe Midon commanded silence by a gesture. 

Enlightened by the words of Mme. d’Escorval, and by 
the confession of Maurice, the abbe understood at once 
the extent of the frightful danger that menaced the baron 
and his son. 

How was this danger to be averted? What must be 
done? 

He had no time for explanation or reception; with 
each moment, a chance of salvation fled. He must 
decide and act without delay. 

The abbe was a brave man. He darted to the door, 
and called the servants who were standing in the hall 
and on the staircase. When they were gathered around 
him : 

“Listen to me, intently,” said he, in that quick and 
imperious voice that impresses one with the certainty of 
approaching peril, “and remember that your master’s 
life depends, perhaps, upon your discretion. We can 
rely upon you, can we not?” 

Every hand was raised as if to call upon God to wit- 
ness their fidelity. 

“In less than an hour,” continued the priest, “the sol- 
diers sent in pursuit of the fugitives will be here. Not a 
word must be uttered in regard to what has passed this 
evening. Every one must be led to suppose that I went 
away with the baron, and returned alone. Not one of 
you must have seen Mdlle. Lacheneur. We are going to 
find a place of concealment for her. Remember, my 
friends, if there is the slightest suspicion of her presence 
here, all is lost. If the soldiers question you, endeavor 
to convince them that M. Maurice has not left the house 
this evening.” 


, MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


211 


He paused, trying to think if he had forgotten any pre- 
caution that human prudence could suggest, then added : 

“One word more; to see you standing about at this 
hour of the night will awaken suspicion at once. But 
this is what I desire. We will plead in justification the 
alarm that you feel at the absence of the baron, and also 
the indisposition of madame — for madame is going to re- 
tire — she will thus escape interrogation. And you, Mau- 
rice, run and change your clothes ; and, above all, wash 
your hands and sprinkle some perfume upon them.” 

All present were so impressed with the imminence of 
the danger, that they were more than willing to obey 
the priest’s orders; 

Marie- Anne, as soon as she could be moved, was car- 
ried to a tiny room under the roof. Mme. d’Escorval 
retired to her own apartment, and the servants went 
back to the ofiice. 

Maurice and the abbe remained alone in the drawing- 
room, silent and appalled by horrible forebodings. 

The unusually calm face of the priest betrayed his ter- 
rible anxiety. He now felt convinced that Baron d’Es- 
corval was a prisoner, and all his efforts were now 
directed toward removing any suspicion of complicity 
from Maurice. “This was,” he reflected, “the only way 
to save the father.” 

A violent peal of the bell attached to the gate inter- 
rupted his meditations. 

He heard the footsteps of the g^lener as he hastened 
to open it, heard the gate turn upon its hinges, then the 
measured tramp of soldiers in the courtyard. 

A loud voice commanded: “Halt!” 

The priest looked at Maurice, and saw that he was as 
pale as death. 


212 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Be calm,” he entreated, “do not be alarmed. Do 
not lose your self-possession— and do not forget my in- 
structions.” 

“Let them come,” replied Maurice. “I am prepared !” 

The drawing-room door was flung violently open, and 
a young man, wearing the uniform of a captain of grena- 
diers, entered. He was scarcely twenty-five years of age, 
tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes and little waxed mus- 
tache. His whole person betokened an excessive ele- 
gance exaggerated to the verge of the ridiculous. His 
face ordinarily must have indicated extreme self-com- 
placency, but at the present moment it wore a really 
ferocious expression. Behind him, in the passage, were 
a number of armed soldiers. 

He cast a suspicious glance around the room, then, in 
a harsh voice: “Who is the master of this house?” he 
demanded. 

“The Baron d’Escorval, my father, who is absent,” 
replied Maurice. 

“Where is he?” 

The abbe, who, until now, had remained seated, rose. 

“On hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this even- 
ing,” he replied, “the baron and myself went to these 
peasants in the hope of inducing them to relinquish their 
foolish undertaking. They would not listen to us. In 
the confusion that ensued, I became separated from the 
baron ; I returned here very anxious, and am now await- 
ing his return. ” 

The captain twisted his mustaches with a sneering air. 

“Not a bad invention !” said he. “Only I do not be- 
lieve a word of this fiction.” 

A light gleamed in the eyes of the priest, his lips trem- 
bled— but he held his peace. • 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


213 


“Who are you?” rudely demanded the officer. 

“I am the Cure of Sairmeuse.” 

“Honest men ought to be in bed at this hour. And 
you are racing about the country after rebellious peas- 
ants. Really, I do not know what prevents me from 
ordering your arrest.” 

That which did prevent him was the priestly robe, all 
powerful under the Restoration. With Maurice, he was 
more at ease. 

“How many are there in this family?” 

“Three; my father, my mother — ill at this moment — 
and myself.” 

“And how many servants?” 

“Seven — four men and three women.” 

“You have neither received nor concealed any one this 
evening?” 

“No one.” 

“It will be necessary to prove this,” said the captain. 

And turning toward the door: “Corporal Bav^ois !” he 
called. 

This man was one of those old soldiers who had fol- 
lowed the emperor over all Europe. Two small ferocious 
gray eyes lighted his tanned, weather-beaten face, and 
an immense hooked nose surmounted a heavy, bristling 
mustache. 

“Bavois,” commanded the officer, “you will take half 
a dozen men and search this house from top to bottom. 
You are an old fox that knows a thing or two. If there 
is any hiding-place here, you will be sure to discover it ; 
if any one is concealed here, you will bring the person 
to me. Go, and make haste !” 

The corporal departed on his mission; the captain 
resumed his questions. 


214 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“And now,” said he, turning to Manrice, “what have 
you been doing this evening?” 

The young man hesitated for an instant ; then, with 
well-feigned indifference, replied: “I have not put my 
head outside the door this evening.” 

‘ ‘Hum ! that must be proved. Let me see your hands. ’ ’ 

The soldier’s tone was so offensive that Maurice felt 
the angry blood mount to his forehead. Fortunately a 
warning glance from the abbe made him restrain his 
wrath. He offered his hands to the inspection of the 
captain, who examined them carefully, outside and in, 
and finally smelled them. 

‘ ‘Ah ! these hands are too white and smell too sweet to 
have been dabbling in powder.” 

He was evidently surprised that this young man should 
have had so little courage as to remain in the shelter of 
the fireside while his father was leading the peasants on 
to battle. 

“Another thing,” said he; “you must have weapons 
here?” 

“Yes, hunting rifles.” 

“Where are they?” 

“In a small room on the ground-floor.” 

“Take me there.” 

They conducted him to the room, and on finding that 
none of the double-barreled guns* had been used for 
several days, he seemed considerably annoyed. 

He appeared furious when the corporal came and told 
liim that he had searched everywhere, but had found 
nothing of a suspicious character. 

“Send for the servants,” was his next order. 

But all the servants faithfully repeated the lesson which 
the abbe had given them. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


215 


The captain saw that he was not likely to discover the 
mystery, although he was well satisfied that one existed. 

Swearing that they should pay dearly for it, if they 
were deceiving him, he again called Bavois. 

‘T must continue my search,” said he. “You, with 
two men, will remain here, and render a strict account 
of all that you see and hear. If M. d’Escorval returns, 
bring him to me at once ; do not allow him to escape. 
Keep your eyes open, and good luck to you !” 

He added a few words in a low voice, then left the 
room as abruptly as he had entered it. 

The departing footsteps of the soldiers were soon lost 
in the stillness of the night, and then the corporal gave 
vent to his disgust in a frightful oath. 

“Hein!” said he, to his men, “you have heard that 
cadet. Listen, watch, arrest, report. So he takes us for 
spies I Ah I if our old leader knew to what base uses his 
old soldiers were degraded I” 

The two men responded by a sullen growl. 

“As for you,” pursued the old trooper, addressing 
Maurice and the abbe, “I, Bavois, corporal of grena- 
diers, declare in my name and in that of my two men, 
that you are as free as birds, and that we shall arrest no 
one. More than that, if we can aid you in any way, we 
are at your service. The little fool that commanded us 
this evening thought we were fighting. Look at my gun 
— I have not fired a shot from it — and my comrades fired 
only blank cartridges.” The man might possibly be sin- 
cere, but it was scarcely probable. 

“We have nothing to conceal,” replied the cautious 
priest. 

The old corporal gave a knowing wink. 

“Ah! you distrust me! You are wrong; and I am 


216 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


going to prove it. Because, you see, though it is easy 
to gull that fool who just left here, it is not so easy to 
deceive Corporal Bavois. Very well I it was scarcely 
prudent to leave in the courtyard a gun that certainly- 
had not been charged for firing at swallows.” 

The cure and Maurice exchanged a glance of conster- 
nation. Maurice now recollected, for the first time, that 
when he sprang from the carriage to lift out Marie- Anne 
he propped his loaded gun against the wall. It had es- 
caped the notice of the servants. 

“Secondly I” pursued Bavois, “there is some one con- 
cealed in the attic. I have excellent ears. Thirdly, I 
arranged it so that no one should enter the sick lady’s 
room.” 

Maurice needed no further proof. He extended his 
hand to the corporal, and, in a voice trembling with 
emotion, he said : “You are a brave man I” 

A few moments later, Maurice, the abbe, and Mme. 
d’Escorval were again assembled in the drawing-room, 
deliberating upon the measures which must be taken, 
when Marie- Anne appeared. 

She was still frightfully pale ; but her step was firm, 
her manner quiet and composed. 

“I must leave this house,” she said, to the baroness. 
“Had I been conscious, I would never have accepted 
hospitality which is likely to bring dire misfortune on 
your family. Alas! your acquaintance with me has 
cost you too many tears and too much sorrow already. 
Do you understand now why I wished you to regard us 
as strangers? A presentiment told me that my family 
would be fatal to yours !” 

“Poor child!” exclaimed Mme. d’Escorval; “where 
will you go?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


. 217 


Marie-Anne lifted her beautiful eyes to the Heaven in 
which she placed her trust. 

“I do not know, madaine,” she replied, “but duty 
commands me to go. I must learn what has become of 
my father and my brother, and share their fate.” 

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “still this thought of 
death. You, who no longer — ” 

He paused ; a secret which was not his own had almost 
escaped his lips. But visited by a sudden inspiration, 
he threw himself at his mother’s feet. 

“Oh, my mother I my dearest mother, do not allow her 
to depart. I may perish in my attempt to save my 
father. She will be your daughter then — she whom I 
have loved so much. You will encircle her with your 
tender and protecting love — ” 

Marie-Anne remained. • 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The secret which approaching death had wrested from 
Marie-Anne in the fortifications at the Croix d’Arcy, 
Mme. d’Escorval was ignorant of when she joined her 
entreaties to those of her son to induce the unfortunate 
girl to remain. But the fact occasioned Maurice scarcely 
any uneasiness. 

His faith in his mother was complete, absolute; he 
was sure that she would forgive when she learned the 
truth. 

Loving and chaste wives and mothers are always most 
indulgent to those who have been led astray by the voice 
of passion. Such noble women can, with impunity, de- 
spise and brave the prejudices of hypocrites. 


218 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


These reflections made Maurice feel more tranquil in 
regard to Marie- Anne’s future, and he now thought only 
of his father. 

Day was breaking ; he declared that he would assume 
some disguise and go to Montaignac at once. 

On hearing these words, Mme. d’Escorval turned and 
hid her face in the sofa cushions to stifle her sobs. 

She was trembling for her husband’s life, and now her 
son must precipitate himself into danger. Perhaps be- 
fore the sun sank to rest, she would have neither hus- 
band nor son. 

And yet she did not say “no.” She felt that Maurice 
was only fulfilling a sacred duty. She would have loved 
him less had she supposed him capable of cowardly hesi- 
tation. She would have dried her tears, if necessary, 
to bid him “go.” 

Moreover, what was not preferable to the agony of 
suspense which they had been enduring for hours? 

Maurice had reached the door, when the abbe stopped 
him. 

“You must go to Montaignac,” said he, “but it would 
be folly to disguise yourself. You would certainly be 
'recognized, and the saying: ‘He who conceals himself is 
guilty,’ will assuredly be applied to you. You must go 
openly, with head erect, and you must even exaggerate 
the assurance of innocence. Go straight to the Duse 
de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu. I will 
accompany you ; we will go in the carriage. ’ ’ 

Maurice seemed undecided. 

“Obey these counsels, my son,” said Mme. d’Escorval; 
“the abbe knows much better than we do what is best.” 

“I will obey, mother.” 

The cure had not waited for this assent to go and give 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


219 


an order for harnessing the horses. Mme. d’Escorval 
left the room to write a few lines to a lady friend, whose 
husband exerted considerable influence in Montaignac. 
Maurice and Marie-Anne were left alone. 

It was the first moment of freedom and solitude which 
they had found since Marie-Anne ’s confession. 

They stood for a moment, silent and motionless, then 
Maurice advanced, and clasping her in his arms, he 
whispered : 

* “Marie-Anne, my darling, my beloved, I did not know 
that one could love more fondly than I loved you yes- 
terday ; but now — And you — you wish for death when 
another precious life depends upon yours !” 

She shook her head sadly. 

“I was terrified,” she faltered. “The future of shame 
that I saw — that I still — alas! see before me, appalled 
me. Now, I am resigned. I will uncomplainingly en- 
dure the punishment for my horrible fault— I will submit 
to the insults and disgrace that await me 1” 

“Insults, to you! Ah! woe to who dares! But will 
you not now be my wife in the sight of men, as you are 
in the sight of God? The failure of your father’s scheme 
sets you free !” 

“No, no, Maurice, I am not free ! Ah ! it is you who 
are pitiless ! I see only too well that you curse me, that 
you curse the day when we met for the first time ! Con- 
fess it ! say it !” 

Marie-Anne lifted her streaming eyes to his. 

“Ah! I should lie if I said that. My cowardly heart 
has not that much courage ! I suffer — I am disgraced 
and humiliated, but — ” 

She could not finish ; he drew her to him, and their 
lips and their tears met in one long kiss. 


220 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“You love me,” exclaimed Maurice, “you love me in 
spite of all I We shall succeed. I will save your father, 
and mine — I will save your brother !” 

The horses were neighing and stamping in the court- 
yard. The abbe cried: “Come, let us start.” Mme. 
ci’Escorval entered with a letter, which she handed to 
Maurice. 

She clasped in a long and convulsive embrace the son 
whom she feared she should never see again ; then, sum- 
moning all her courage, she pushed him way, uttering 
only the single word : “Go !” 

He departed; and when the sound of the carriage 
wheels had died away in the distance, Mme. d’Escorval 
and Marie-Anne fell upon their knees, imploring the 
mercy and the aid of a just God. They could only pray. 
The cure and Maurice could act. 

Abbe Midon’s plan, which he explained to young D’Es- 
corval as the horses dashed along, was as simple as the 
situation was terrible. 

“If by confessing your own guilt you coud save your 
father, I should tell you to deliver yourself up, and to 
confess the whole truth. Such would be your duty. But 
this sacrifice would be not only useless, but dangerous. 
Your confession of guilt would only implicate your 
father still more. You would be arrested, but they 
would not release him, and you would both be tried 
and convicted. Let us, then, allow— I will not say jus- 
tice, for that would be blasphemy — but these blood- 
thirsty men, who call themselves judges, to pursue their 
course, and attribute all that you have done to your 
father. When the trial comes, we will prove his inno- 
cence, and produce alibis so incontestable that they will 
be forced to acquit him. And I understand the people 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


221 


of our country so well that I am sure not one of them 
will reveal our stratagem.” 

“And if we should not succeed,” asked Maurice, 
gloomily, “what would I do then?” - 

The question was so terrible that the priest dared r 
respond to it. He and Maurice were silent during 
remainder of the drive. 

They reached the city at last, and Maurice saw In 
wise the abbe had been in preventing him from assum 
ing a disguise. 

Armed with the most absolute power, the Duke de 
Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu had closed 
. all the gates of Montaignac save one. ‘ 

Through this gate all who desired to leave or enter the 
city were obliged to pass, and two officers were stationed 
there to examine all comers and goers, to question them, 
and to take their name and residence. 

. At the name “D’Escorval,” the two officers evinced 
such surprise that Maurice noticed it at once. 

“Ah! you know what has become of my father I” he 
exclaimed. 

“The Baron d’Escorval is a prisoner, monsieur,” re- 
plied one of the officers. 

Although Maurice had expected this response, he 
turned pale. 

“Is he wounded?” he asked, eagerly. 

“He has not a scratch. But enter, sir, and pass on.” 

From the anxious looks of these officers one might 
have supposed that they feared they should compromise 
themselves by conversing with the son of so great a 
criminal. 

The carriage rolled beneath the gateway ; but it had 
not traversed two hundred yards of the Grand Rue before 


222 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the abbe and Maurice had remarked several posters and 
notices affixed to the walls. 

“We must see what this is,’" they said, in a breath. 

They stopped near one of these notices, before which a 

ider had already stationed himself; they descended 

m the carriage, and read the following order : 

‘Article I. — The inmates of the house in which the 

der Lacheneur shall be found will be handed over to a 
military commission for trial. 

“Article II.— Whoever shall deliver the body of the 
elder Lacheneur, dead or alive, will receive a reward of 
twenty thousand francs.” 

This was signed Duke de Sairmeuse. 

“God be praised !” exclaimed Maurice, “Marie-Anne’s 
father has escaped ! He had a good horse, and in two 
hours — ” 

A glance and a nudge of the elbow from the abbe 
checked him. 

The abbe drew his attention to the man standing near 
them. This was none other than Chupin. 

The old scoundrel had also recognized them, for he 
took off his hat to the cure, and, with an expression of 
intense covetousness in his eyes, he said: “Twenty thou- 
sand francs! What a sum! A man could live com- 
fortably all his life on the interest of it !” 

The abbe and Maurice shuddered as they re-entered 
their carriage. 

“Lacheneur is lost if this man discovers his retreat,” 
murmured the priest. 

“Fortunately he must have crossed the frontier before 
this,” replied Maurice. “A hundred to one he is beyond 
reach !” 

“And if you should be mistaken. What if , woimded 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


223 


and faint from loss of blood, Lacheneiir has had only 
strength to drag himself to the nearest house and ask 
the hospitality of its inmates?” 

“Oh I even in that case he is safe; I know our peas- 
ants. There is not one who is capable of selling the life 
of a proscribed man.” 

The noble enthusiasm of youth drew a sad smile from 
the priest. 

“You forget the dangers to be incurred by those who 
shelter him. Many a man who would not soil his hands 
with the price of blood, might deliver up a fugitive from 
fear.” 

They were passing through the principal street, and 
they were struck with the mournful aspect of the place 
— the little city which was ordinarily so bustling and 
gay. 

Fear and consternation evidently reigned then. The 
shops were closed ; the shutters of the houses had not 
been opened. A lugubrious silence pervaded the town. 
One might have supposed that there was general mourn- 
ing, and that each family had lost one of its members. 

. The manner of the few persons seen upon the thorough- 
fare was anxious and singular. They hurried on, cast- 
ing suspicious glances on every side. 

Two or three who were acquaintances of the Baron 
d’Escorval averted their heads, on seeing his carriage, 
to avoid the necessity of bowing. 

The abbe and Maurice found an explanation of this 
evident terror on reaching the hotel to which they had 
ordered the coachman to take them. 

They had designated the Hotel de France, where the 
baron always stopped when he visited Montaignac, and 
whose proprietor was none other than Laugeron, that 


224 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


friend of Lacheneur who had been the first to warn him 
of the arrival of the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

This worthy man, on hearing what guests had arrived, 
went to the courtyard to meet them, with his white cap 
in his hand. On such a day politeness was heroism. 
Was he connected with the conspiracy? It has always 
been supposed so. 

He invited Maurice and the abbe to take some refresh- 
ments in a way that made them understand he was anx- 
ious to speak with them, and he conducted them to a 
retired room where he knew they would be secure from 
observation. 

Thanks to one of the Duke de Sairmeuse ’s valets de 
chambre who frequented the house, the host knew as 
much as the authorities ; he knew even more, since he 
liad also received information from the rebels who had 
escaped capture. From him the abbe and Maurice received 
their first positive information. 

In the first place, nothing had been heard of Lache- 
neur or of his son Jean ; thus far they had escaped the 
most rigorous pursuit. 

In the second place, there were, at this moment, two 
hundred prisoners in the citadel, and among them the 
Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau. 

And lastly, since morning there had been at least sixty 
arrests in Montaignac. 

It was generally supposed that these arrests were the 
work of some traitor, and all the inhabitants were 
trembling with fear. 

But M. Laugeron knew the real cause. It had been 
confided to him under pledge of secrecy by his guest, 
the duke's valet de chambre. 

“It is certainly an incredible story, gentlemen,” he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


225 


said; “nevertKeless, it is true. Two officers belonging 
to the Montaignac miiitia, on returning from their ex- 
pedition this morning at daybreak, on passing the Croix 
d’Arcy, found a man, clad in the uniform of the em- 
peror’s body-guard, lying dead in the fosse. 

Maurice shuddered. 

The unfortunate man, he could not doubt, was the 
brave old soldier who had spoken to Lacheneur. 

“Naturally,” pursued M. Laugeron, “the two officers 
examined the body of the dead man. Between his lips 
they found a paper, which they opened and read. It 
was a list of all the conspirators in the village. The 
brave man, knowing he was mortally wounded, endeav- 
ored to destroy this fatal list ; but the agonies of death 
prevented him from swallowing it — ” 

But the abbe and Maurice had not time to listen to the 
commentaries with which the hotel proprietor accom- 
panied his recital. 

They dispatched a messenger to Mme. d’Escorval and 
to Marie-Anne, in order to reassure them, and, without 
losing a moment, and fully determined to brave all, they 
went to the house occupied by the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

A crowd had gathered about the door. At least a hun- 
dred persons were standing there; men with anxious 
faces, women in tears, soliciting, imploring an audience. 

They were the friends and relatives of the unfortunate 
men who had been arrested. 

Two footmen, in gorgeous livery and pompous in bear- 
ing, had all they could do to keep back the struggling 

\ 

throng. 

The abbe, hoping that his priestly dress would win him 
a hearing, approached and gave his name. But he was 
repulsed like the others. 


226 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Monsieur le Due is busy, and can receive no one, ” 
said the servant. “Monsieur le Duo is preparing his 
report for his majesty.” 

And in support of this assertion, he pointed to the 
horses, standing saddled in the courtyard, and the cou- 
riers who were to bear the dispatches. 

The priest sadly rejoined his companions. 

“We must wait !” said he. 

Intentionally or not, the servants were deceiving these 
poor people. The duke, just then, was not troubling 
himself about dispatches., A violent altercation was 
going on between the Marquis de Courtornieu and 
himself. 

Each of those noble personages aspired to the leading 
role — the one which would be most generously rewarded, 
undoubtedly. It was a conflict of ambitions and of wills. 

It had begun by the exchange of a few recriminations, 
and it quickly reached stinging words, bitter allusions, 
and at last, even threats. 

The marquis declared it necessary to inflict the most 
frightful — he said the most salutary punishment upon 
the offender; the duke, on the contrary, was inclined 
to be indulgent. 

The marquis declared that since Lacheneur, the prime 
mover, and his son had both eluded pursuit, it was an 
urgent necessity to arrest Marie- Anne. 

The other declared that the arrest and imprisonment 
of this young girl would be impolitic, that such a course 
would render the authorities odious and the rebels more 
zealous. 

As each was firmly wedded to his own opinion, the 
discussion was heated, but they failed to convince each 
other. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


227 


“These rebels must be put down with a strong hand !’’ 
urged M. de Courtornieu. 

“I do not wish to exasperate the populace,” replied 
the duke. 

“Bah ! what does public sentiment matter?” 

“It matters a great deal when you cannot depend upon 
your soldiers. Do you know what happened last night? 
There was powder enough burned to win a battle; there 
were only fifteen peasants wounded. Our men fired in 
the air. 'You forget that the Montaignac militia is com- 
posed, for the most part, at least, of men who formerly 
fought under Bonaparte, and who are burning to turn 
their weapons against us.” 

But neither the one nor the other dared to tell the real 
cause of his obstinacy. 

Mdlle. Blanche had been at Montaignac that morning. 
She had confided her anxiety and her sufferings to her 
father ; and she had made him swear that he would profit 
by this opportimity to rid her of Marie- Anne. 

On his side, the duke, persuaded that Marie- Anne was 
his son’s mistress, wished, at any cost, to prevent her 
appearance before the tribunal. At last the marquis 
yielded. 

The duke had said to him : “Very well ! let us end this 
dispute,” at the same time glancing so meaningly at a 
pair of pistols that the worthy marquis felt a disagree- 
able chilliness creep up his spine. 

They then went together to examine the prisoners, 
preceded by a detachment of soldiery, who drove back 
the crowd, which gathered again to await the duke’s 
return. So all day Maurice watched the aerial telegraph 
established upon the citadel, and whose black arms were 
moving incessantly. 


228 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What orders are traveling through space?” he said 
to the abbe ; “is it life, or is it death?” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“Above all, make haste!” Maurice had said to the 
messenger charged with bearing a letter to the baroness. 

Nevertheless, the man did not reach Escorval until 
nightfall. 

Beset by a thousand fears, he had taken the unfre- 
quented roads and had made long circuits to avoid all 
the people he saw approaching in the distance. 

Mme. d’ Escorval tore the letter rather than took it 
from his hands. She oj^ened it, read it aloud to Marie- 
Anne, and merely said : “Let us go — at once.” 

But this was easier said than done. 

They kept but three horses at Escorval. One was 
nearly dead from its terrible journey of the previous 
night ; the other two were in Montaignac. 

What were the ladies to do? To trust to the kindness 
of their neighbors was the only resource open to them. 

But these neighbors, having heard of the baron’s 
arrest, firmly refused to lend their horses. They be- 
lieved they would gravely compromise themselves by 
rendering any service to the wife of a man upon whom 
the burden of the most terrible accusations was resting. 

Mme. d’Escorval and Marie- Anne were talking of pur- 
suing their journey on foot, when Corporal Bavois, en- 
raged at such cowardice, swore by the sacred name of 
thunder that this should not be. 

“One moment I” saidhe. “I will arrange the matter. ” 

He went away, but reappeared about a quarter of an 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


229 


hour afterward, leading an old plow-horse by the mane. 
This clumsy and heavy steed he harnessed into the cab- 
riolet as best he could. 

But even this did not satisfy the old trooper’s com- 
plaisance. 

His duties at the chateau were over, as M. d’Escorval 
had been arrested, and nothing remained for Corporal 
Bavois but to rejoin his regiment. 

He declared that he would not allow these ladies to 
travel at night, and unattended, on a road where they 
might be exposed to man'c disagreeable encounters, and 
that he, in company with two grenadiers, would escort 
them to their journey’s end. 

“And it will go hard with soldier or civilian who 
ventures to molest them, will it not, comrades?” he 
exclaimed. As usual, the two men assented, with an oath. 

So, as they pursued their journey, Mme. d’Escorval 
and Marie- Anne saw the three men preceding or follow- 
ing the carriage, or oftener walking beside it. 

Not until they reached the gates of Montaignac did the 
old soldier forsake his protegees, and then, not without 
bidding them a respectful farewell, in the name of his 
companions as well as himself ; not without telling them, 
if they had need of him, to call upon Bavois, corporal 
of grenadiers, company first, stationed at the citadel. 

The clocks were striking ten when Mme. d’Escorval 
and Marie- Anne alighted at the Hotel de France. 

They found Maurice in despair, and even the abbe dis- 
heartened. Since Maurice had written to them, events 
had progressed with fearful rapidity. 

They knew now the orders which had been forwarded 
by signals, from the citadel. These orders had been 
printed and afiixed to the walls. The signals had said : 


230 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Montaignac must be regarded as in a state of siege. 
The military authorities have been granted discretionary 
power. A military commission will exercise jurisdic- 
tion instead of, and in place of, the courts. Let peace- 
able citizens take courage ; let the evil disposed tremble I 
As for the rabble, the sword of the law is about to strike ! ” 

Only six lines in all — but each word was a menace. 

That which filled the abbe’s heart with dismay was 
the substitution of a military commission for a court- 
martial. , 

This upset all his plans, made all his precautions use- 
less, and destroyed his hopes of saving his friend. 

A court-martial was, of course, hasty and often unjust 
in its decisions ; but still, it observed some of the forms 
of procedure practiced in judicial tribunals. It still 
preserved something of the solemnity of legal justice, 
which desires to be enlightened before it condemns. 

A military commission would infallibly neglect all 
legal forms, and Summarily condemn and punish the 
accused parties, as in time of war a spy is tried and 
punished. 

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “they dare to condemn 
without investigating, without listening to testimony, 
without allowing the accused time to prepare any'de^ 
fense?” 

The abbe was silent. This exceeded his most sinister 
apprehensions. Now, he believed anything possible. 

Maurice spoke of an investigation. It had commenced 
that day, and it was still going on by the light of the 
jailer’s lantern. 

That is to say, the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis 
de Courtornieu were passing the prisoners in review. 

Tliey numbered three hundred, and the duke and his 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


231 


companion had decided to summon before the commis- 
sion thirty of the most dangerous conspirators. 

How were they to select them? By what method 
could they discover the extent of each prisoner’s guilt? 
It would have been difficult for them to explain. 

They went from one to another, asking any question 
that entered their minds, and after the terrified man re- 
plied, according as they thought his countenance good or 
bad, they said to the jailer who accompanied them: 
“Keep this one until another time,” or, “This one for 
to-morrow.” 

By daylight they had thirty names upon their list; 
and the name of the Baron d’Escorval and Chanloui- 
neau led all the rest. 

Although the unhappy party at the Hotel de France 
could not suspect this fact, they suffered an agony of 
fear and dread through the long night which seemed to 
them eternal. 

As soon as day broke, they heard the beating of the 
reveille at the citadel ; the hour when they might com- 
mence their efforts anew had come. 

The abbe announced that he was going alone to the 
duke’s house, and that he would find a way to force an 
entrance. 

He had bathed his red and swo en eyes in fresh water, 
aryl was prepared to start on his expedition, when some 
one rapped cautiously at the door of the chamber. 

Maurice cried : “Come in,” and M. Laugeron instantly 
entered the room. 

His face announced some dreadful misfortune; and 
the worthy man was really terrified. H6 had just learn- 
ed that the military commission had been organized. 

In contempt of all human laws and the commonest 


232 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


rules of justice, the’* presidency of this tribunal of ven- 
geance and of hatred had been bestowed upon the Duke 
de Sairmeuse. 

And he had accepted it— he who was at the same time 
to play the part of participant, witness and judge. 

The other members of the commission were military 
men. ^ 

“And when does the commission enter upon its func- 
tions?” inquired the abbe. 

“To-day,” replied the host, hesitatingly ; “this morn- 
ing — in an hour — perhaps sooner !” 

The abbe understood what M. Laugeron meant, but 
dared not say: “The commission is assembling; make 
haste !” 

“Come!” he said to Maurice, “I wish to be present 
when your father is examined.” 

Ah 1 what would not the baroness have given to fol- 
low the priest and her son? But she could not; she 
understood this, and submitted. 

They set out, and as they stepped into the street they 
saw a soldier a little way from them, who made a friend- 
ly gesture. 

They recognized Corporal Bavois, and paused. 

But he, passing them with an air of the utmost in- 
difference, and apparently without observing them, 
hastily dropped these vvords: 

“I have seen Chanlouineau. Be of good cheer; he 
promises to save M. d’Escorval !” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

In the citadel of Montaignac, within the second line of 
fortifications, stands an old building known as the chapel. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


233 


Originally consecrated to worship, the structure had, 
at the time of which we write, fallen into disuse. It was 
so damp that it would not even sei*ve as an arsenal for 
an artillery regiment, for the guns rusted there much 
more quickly than in the open air. A black mould cov- 
ered the walls to a height of six or seven feet. 

This was the place selected by the Duke de Sairmeuse 
and the Marquis de Courtomieu for the assembling of 
the military commission. 

On first entering it, Maurice and the abbe felt a cold 
chill strike to their very hearts; and an indefinable 
anxiety paralyzed all their faculties. 

But the commission had not yet commenced its seance ; 
and they had time to look about them. 

The arrangements which had been made in transform- 
ing this gloomy hall into a tribunal, attested the pre- 
cipitancy of the judges, and their determination to finish 
their work promptly and mercilessly. 

The arrangements denoted an absence of all form; 
and one could divine at once the frightful certainty of 
the result. 

Three large tables, taken from the mess-room, and 
covered with horse blankets instead of tapestry, stood 
upon the platform. Some unpainted wooden chairs 
awaited the judges; but in the center glittered the 
president’s chair, a superbly carved and gildied. fauteuil, 
sent by the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

Several wooden benches had been provided for the 
prisoners. Ropes stretched from one wall to the other 
divided the chapel into two parts. It was a precaution 
against the public. 

A superfluous precaution, alas ! 

The abbe and Maurice had expected to find the crowd 


234 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


too great for the hall, large as it was, and they found 
the chapel almost unoccupied. 

There were not twenty persons in the building. Stand- 
ing back in the shadow of the wall were perhaps a dozen 
men, pale and gloomy, a sullen fire smoldering in their 
eyes, their teeth tightly clinched. They were army offi- 
cers retired on half pay. Three men, attired in black, 
were conversing in low tones near the door. In a corner 
stood several country women with their aprons over their 
faces. They were weeping bitterly, and their sobs alone 
broke the silence. They were the mothers, wives or 
daughters of the accused inen. 

Nine o’clock sounded. The rolling of the drum made 
the panes of the only window tremble. A loud voice 
outside shouted, “Present arms!” The military com- 
mission entered, followed by the Marquis de Courtornieu 
and several civil fmictionaries. 

The duke was in full uniform, his face a little more 
crimson, and his air a trifle more haughty than usual. 

“The session is open 1” pronounced the Duke de Sair- 
meuse, the president. 

Then, in a rough voice, he added : 

“Bring in the culprits.” 

He had not even the grace to say “the accused.” 

They came in, one by one, to the number of twenty^ 
and took their places on the benches at the foot of tho 
platform. 

Chanlouineau held his head proudly erect, and looked 
composedly about him. 

Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave ; but not more 
so than when, in days gone by, he had been called upon 
to express his opinion in the councils of* the empire. 

Both saw Maurice, who was^ so overcome that he was 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


235 


obliged to lean upon the abbe for support. But while 
the baron greeted his son with a simple bend of the head, 
Chanlouineau made a gesture that clearly signified : 
“Have confidence in me — fear nothing.” 

The attitude of the other prisoners betrayed surprise 
rather than fear. Perhaps they were imconscious of the 
peril they had braved and the extent of the danger that 
now threatened them. 

When the prisoners had taken their places, the chief 
counsel for the prosecution rose. 

His presentation of the case was characterized by in- 
tense violence, but lasted only five minutes. He briefly 
narrated the facts, exalted the merits of the government, 
of tho Restoration, and concluded by a demand that sen- 
tence of death should be pronounced upon the culprits. 

When he ceased speaking, the duke, addressing the 
first prisoner upon the bench, said, rudely * “Stand up !” 

The prisoner rose. 

“Your name and age?” 

“Eugene Michel Chanlouineau, aged twenty-nine, 
farmer by occupation.” 

“An owner of national lands, probably?” 

“The owner of lands which, having been paid for with 
good money and made fertile by labor, are rightfully 
mine. ’ ’ 

The duke did not wish to waste time on discussion. 

“You have taken part in this rebellion?” he pursued. 

“Y^s.” 

“You are right in avowing it, for witnesses will be 
introduced who will prove this fact conclusively.” 

Five grenadiers entered; they were the men whom 
Chanlouineau had held at bay while Maurice, the abbe, 
and Marie- Anne were entering the carriage. 


236 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


These soldiers declared upon oath that they recognized 
the accused ; and one of them even went so far as to 
pronounce a glowing eulogium upon him, declaring him 
to be a solid fellow, of remarkable courage. 

Chanlouineau’s eyes, during this deposition, betrayed 
an agony of anxiety. Would the soldiers allude to this 
circumstance of the carriage? No; they did not allude 
to it. . , 

“That is suflficient,’' interrupted the president. Then, 
turning to Chanlouineau : “What were your motives?'’ 
he inquired. 

“We hoped to free ourselves from a government im- 
posed upon us by foreigners ; to free ourselves from the 
insolence of the nobility, and to retain the lands that 
were justly ours.” 

“Enough ! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?” 

“One of four leaders — yes.” 

“Who were the others?” 

A faint smile flitted over the lips of the young farmer, 
as he replied: “The others were M. Lacheneur, his son 
Jean, and the Marquis de Sairmeuse.” 

The duke bounded from his gilded arm-chair. 

“V/retchl” he exclaimed, “rascal I vile scoundrel I” 

He caught up a heavy inkstand that stood upon the 
table before him ; and one would have supposed that he 
was about to hurl it at the prisoner’s head. 

Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved in the midst of 
the assembly, which was excited to the highest pitch by 
his startling declaration. 

“You questioned me,” he resumed, “and I replied. 
You may gag me if my responses do not please you. If 
there were witnesses for me, as there are against me, I 
could prove the truth of my words. As it is, all the 


MONSIEUR r LECOQ. 


237 


prisoners here will tell you that I am speaking the truth. 
Is it not so, you others?” 

With the exception of Baron d’Escorval, there was not 
one prisoner who was capable of understanding the real 
bearing of these audacious allegations ; but all, never- 
tlieless, nodded their assent. 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader,” 
exclaimed the daring peasant, “that he was wounded by 
a saber thrust while fighting by my side.” 

The face of the duke was more purple than that of a 
man struck with apoplexy ; and his fury almost deprived 
him of the power of speech. 

“You lie, scoundrel I you lie!” he gasped. 

“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, tranquil- 
ly, “and see whether or not he is wounded.” 

A refusal on the part of the duke could not fail to 
arouse suspicion. But what could he do? Martial had 
concealed his wound the day before; it was now im- 
possible to confess that he had been wounded. 

Fortunately for the duke, one of the judges relieved 
him of his embarrassment. 

“I hope, monsieur, that you will not give this arrogant 
rebel the satisfaction he desires. The commission op- 
poses his demand.” 

Chanlouineau laughed loudly. “Very naturally,” he 
exclaimed. “To-morrow my head will be off, and you 
think nothing will then remain to prove what I say. I 
have another proof, fortunately — material and inde- 
structible proof — which it is beyond your power to 
destroy, and which will speak when my body is six feet 
under ground.” 

“What is this proof ?” demanded another judge, upon 
whom the duke looked askance. 


238 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


• The prisoner shook his head. “I will give it to you 
when you offer me my life in exchange for it,” he re- 
plied. ‘Tt is now in the hands of a trusty person, who 
knows its value. It will go to the king, if necessary. 
We would like to understand the part which the Mar- 
quis de Sairmeuse has played in this affair — whether he 
was truly with us, or whether he was only an instigat- 
ing agent.” ' ‘ ' 

A tribunal regardful of the immutable rules of justice, 
or even of its own honor, would, by virtue of its discre- 
tionary powers, have instantly demanded "the presence 
of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. But the military com- 
mission considered such a course quite beneath its 
dignity. 

These men, arrayed in gdrgeous uniforms, were not 
judges charged with the vindication of a cruel law, but 
still a law — they, were the instruments commissioned by 
the conquerors to strike the vanquished in the name * 
of that savage code which may be summed up in two 
words : Uce victis ! ^ 

The president, the noble Duke de Sairmeuse, would 
not have consented to summon Martial on any considera- 
tion. Nor did his associate judges wish him to do so. 

Had Chanlouineau foreseen this? Probably. Yet, why 
had he ventured so hazardous a blow? 

The tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided that it 
would not admit this testimony, which had so excited 
the audience and stupefied Maurice and Abbe Midon. 

The examination was continued, therefore, with in- 
creased bitterness. 

“Instead of designating imaginary leaders,” resumed 
the duke, “you would do well to name the real instiga- 
tor of this revolt — not Lacheneur, but an individual. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


239 


seated upon the other end of the bench, the elder D’Es- 
corval — ” 

“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was entirely ignorant 
of the conspiracy, I swear it by all that I hold most 
sacred — 

“Hold your tongue I” interrupted the counsel for the 
prosecution. “Instead of wearying the patience of the 
commission by such ridiculous stories, try to merit its 
indulgence.” 

Chanlouineau’s glance and gesture expressed such dis- 
dain that the man who interrupted him was abashed. 

^ “I wish no indulgence,” he said. “I have played, I 
have lost ; here is my head. But if you were not more 
cruel than wild beasts, you would take pity on the poor 
^►retches who surround me. I see at least ten among 
them who were not our accomplices, and who certainly 
did not take up arms. Even the others did not know 
what they were doing. No, they did not!” 

Having spoken, he resumed his seat, proud, indiffer- 
3nt, and apparently oblivious to the murmur which ran 
rough the audience, the soldiers of the guard, and even 
the platform, at the sound of his vibrant voice. 

The despair of the poor peasant women had been re- 
awakened, and their sobs and moans filled the immense 
Sail. The retired officers had grown even more pale and 
aloomy ; and tears streamed down the vmnkled cheeks 
9 f several. 

1 “That one is a man !” they were thinking. 

I The abbe leaned over and whispered in the ear of 
iaurice : ‘ ‘Evidently Chanlouineau has some plan. He 
Intends to save your father. How, I cannot understand. ’ ’ 

The judges were conversing in low tones with con- 
siderable animation. A difficulty had presented itself. 


240 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The prisoners, ignorant of the charges which would be 
brought against them, and not expecting instant trial, 
had not thought of procuring a defender. 

And this circumstance, bitter mockery! frightened 
this iniquitous tribunal, which did not fear to trample 
beneath its feet the most sacred rules of justice. 

The judges had decided ; their verdict was, as it were, 
rendered in advance, and yet they wished to hear a voice 
raised in defense of those who were already doomed. 

It chanced that three lawyers, retained by the friends 
of several of the prisoners, were in the hall. They were 
the three men that Maurice, on his entrance, had noticed 
conversing near the door of the chapel. 

The duke was informed of this fact. He turned to 
them, and motioned them to approach ; then, pointing 
to Chanlouineau : “Will you undertake this culprit’s 
defense?’' he demanded. 

For a moment the lawyers made no response. This 
monstrous seance had aroused a storm of indignation 
and disgust within their breasts, and they looked ques- 
tioningly at each other. 

“We are all disposed to undertake the prisoner’s de- 
fense,” at last replied the eldest of the three; “but we 
see him for the first time ; we are ignorant of his grounds 
of defense. We must ask a delay; it is indispensable, | 
in order to confer with him.” ! 

“The court can grant you no delay,” interrupted M. i 
de Sairmeuse; “will you accept the defense — yes, or ' 
no?” 

The advocate hesitated, not that he was afraid, for he 
was a brave man ; but he was endeavoring to find some | 
argument strong enough to trouble the conscience of | 
these judges. j 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


241 


“I will speak in his behalf,” said the advocate, at last, 
“but not without first protesting with all my strength 
against these unheard-of modes of procedure. ” 

“Oh ! spare us your homilies, and be brief.’.’ 

After Chanlouineau’s examination, it was difidcult to 
improvise there, on the spur of the moment, a plea in 
his behalf. Still, his courageous advocate, in his indig- 
nation, presented a score of arguments which would have 
made any other tribunal reflect. But all the while he 
was speaking the Duke de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his 
gilded arm-chair with every sign of angry impatience. 

“The plea was very long,” he remarked, when the 
lawyer had concluded, “terribly long. We shall never 
get through with this business if each prisoner takes up 
so much time !” 

He turned to his colleagues, as if to consult them, but 
suddenly changing his mind, he proposed to the prose- 
cuting counsel that he should unite all the cases, try all 
the culprits in a body, with the exception of the elder 
D’Escorval. 

“This will shorten our task, for, in case we adopt this 
course, there will be but two judgments to be pro- 
nounced,” he said. “This will not, of course, prevent 
each individual from defending himself.” 

The lawyers protested against this. A judgment, in a 
lump, like that suggested by the duke, would destroy all 
hope of saving a single one of these unfortunate men 
from the guillotine. 

“How can we defend them,” the lawyers pleaded, 
“when we know nothing of the situation of each of the 
prisoners? We do not even know their names. We 
shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of their 
coats and by the color of their hair.” 


242 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


They implored the tribunal to grant them a week for 
preparation, four days, even twenty-four hours. Futile 
efforts I The president’s proposition was adopted. 

Consequently, each prisoner was called to the desk, 
according to the place which he occupied upon the 
benches. Each man gave his name, his age, his abode, 
and his profession, and received an order to return to his 
place, p 

Six or seven prisoners were actually granted time to say 
that they were absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and 
that they had been arrested while conversing quietly upon 
the public highway. They begged to be allowed to fur- 
nish proof of the truth of their assertions — they invoked 
the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them. 

• M. d’Escorval, whose case had been separated from the 
others, was not summoned to the desk. He would be 
interrogated last. 

“Now the counsel for the defense will be heard,” said 
the duke ; “but make haste ; lose no time ! It is already 
twelve o’clock.” 

Then began a shameful, revolting, and unheard-of 
scene. The duke interrupted the lawyers every other 
moment, bidding them be silent, questioning them, or 
jeering at them. 

“It seems incredible,” said he, “that anyone can think 
of defending such w, retches I” Or, again: “Silence I You 
should blush with shame for having constituted yourself 
the defender of such rascals !” 

But the lawyers persevered, even while they realized 
the utter uselessness of their efforts. But what could 
they do under such circumstances? The defense of these 
twenty-nine prisoners lasted only one hour and a half. 

Before the last word was fairly uttered, the Duke de 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


243 


Sairmeuse gave a sigh of relief, and, in a tone which be- 
trayed his delight, said: “Prisoner Escorval, stand up !” 

Thus called upon, the baron rose, calm and dignified. 
Terrible as his sufferings must have been, there was no 
trace of it upon his noble face. 

He had even repressed the smile of disdain which the 
duke’s paltry affectation in not giving him the title which 
belonged to him, brought to his lips. 

But Chanlouineau sprang up at the same time, trem- 
bling with indignation, his face all aglow with anger. 

“Remain seated,” ordered the duke, “or you shall be 
removed from the court-room.” 

Chanlouineau, nevertheless, declared that he would 
speak; that he had some remarks to add to the plea 
made by the defending counsel.* 

Upon a sign from the duke, two gendarmes approached 
and placed -their hands upon his shoulders. He allowed 
them to force him back into his seat, though he could 
easily have crushed them with one pressure of his brawny 
arm. 

An observer would have supposed that he was furious ; 
secretly, he was delighted. The aim he had had in view 
was now attained. In the glance he cast upon the abbe, 
the latter could read : 

“Whatever happens, watch over Maurice; restrain 
him. Do not allow him to defeat my plan by any out- 
break.” 

This caution was not unnecessary. Maurice was ter- 
ribly agitated ; he could not see, he felt that he was suffo- 
cating, that he was losing his reason. 

“Where is the self-control you promised me?” mur- 
mured the priest. 

But no one observed the young man’s condition. The 


244 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


attention was rapt, breathless. So profound was the si- 
lence that the measured tread of the sentinels without 
could be distinctly heard. Each person present felt that 
the decisive moment for which the tribunal had re- 
served all its attentions and efforts had come. 

To convict and condemn the poor peasants, of whom 
no one would think twice, was a mere trifle. But to 
bring low an illustrious man, who had been the coun- 
selor and faithful friend of the emperor T What glory, 
and what an opportunity for the ambitious! The in- 
stinct of the audience spoke the truth. If the tribunal 
had acted informally in the case of the obscure conspira- 
tors, it had carefully prepared its suit against the baron. 

Thanks to the activity of the Marquis de Courtornieu, 
the prosecution had found seven charges against the 
baron, the least grave of which was punishable by death. 

“^Vhich of you,” demanded M. de Sairnieuse, “will 
consent to defend this great culprit?” 

“I!” exclaimed the three advocates, in a breath. 

“Take care!” said the duke, with a malicious smile; 
“the task is — not light.” 

“Not light!” It would have been better to say dan- 
gerous. It would have been better to say that the de- 
fender risked his career, his peace, and his liberty — very 
probably his life. 

“Our profession has its exigencies,” nobly replied the 
oldest of the advocates. 

And the three courageously took their place beside the 
baron, thus avenging the honor of their robe, which had 
just been miserably sullied in a city where, among more 
than a hundred thousand souls, two pure and innocent 
\ ictims of a furious reaction had not — oh, shame ! — been 
able to find a defender. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


245 


“Prisoner,” resumed M. de Sairmeuse, “state your 
name and profession.” 

“Louis Guillaume, Baron d’Escorval, Commander of 
the Order of the Legion of Honor, formerly Councilor 
of State under the Empire.” 

“So you avow these shameful services? You con- 
fess—” 

“Pardon, monsieur; I am proud of having had the 
honor of serving my country, and of being useful to her 
in proportion to my ability — ” 

With a furious gesture, the duke interrupted him. 

“That is excellent!” he exclaimed. “These gentle- 
men^ the commissioners, will appreciate that. It was, 
undoubtedly, in the hope of regaining your former posi- 
tion that you entered into a conspiracy against a mag- 
nanimous prince with these vile wretches 1” 

“These peasants are not vile wretches, but misguided 
men, monsieur. Moreover, you know — yes, you know 
as well as I do myself — that I have had no hand in this 
conspiracy.” 

“You were arrested in the ranks of the conspirators 
with weapons in your hands 1” 

“I was unarmed, monsieur, as you are well aware; 
and if I was among the peasantry, it was only because 
I hoped to induce them to relinquish their senseless en- 
terprise.” 

“You lie!” 

The baron paled beneath the insult, but he made no 
reply. 

There was, however, one man in the assemblage who 
could no longer endure this horrible and abominable 
injustice, and this man was Abbe Midon, who, only a 
m’oment before, had advised Maurice to be calm. 


246 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He bruskly quitted his place and advanced to the foot 
of the platform. 

“The Baron d’Escorval speaks the truth,” he cried, in 
a ringing voice; “the three hundred prisoners in the 
citadel will swear to it, these prisoners here would say 
the same if they stood upon the guillotine ; and I, who 
accompanied him, who walked beside him, I, a priest, 
swear before the God who will judge all men, Monsieur 
de Sairmeuse, I swear that all which it was in human 
power to do to arrest this movement we have done !” 

The duke listened with an ironical smile. 

“They did not deceive me, then, when they told me 
that this army of rebels had a chaplain ! Ah ! monsieur, 
you should sink to the earth with shame ! You, a priest, 
mingle with such scoundrels as these — with these enemies 
of our good king and of our holy religion ! Do not deny 
this ! Your haggard features, your swollen eyes, your 
disordered attire, soiled with dust and mud, betray your 
guilt. Must I, a soldier, remind you of what is due your 
sacred calling? Hold your peace, monsieur, and depart 1 ’ ’ 

The counsel for the prisoner sprang up. 

“We demand,” they cried, “that this witness be heard. 
He must be heard ! Military commissions are not above 
the laws that regulate ordinary tribunals !” 

“If I do not speak the truth,” resumed the abbe, “I 
am a perjured witness, worse yet, an accomplice. It is 
your duty, in that case, to have me arrested.” 

The duke’s face expressed a hypocritical compassion. 

“No, Monsieur le Cure,” said he, “I shall not arrest 
you. I would avert the scandal which you are trying to 
cause. W e will show your priestly garb the respect which 
the wearer does not deserve. Again, and for the last 
time, retire, or I shall be obliged to employ force !” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


247 


What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The 
abbe, with a face whiter than the plastered walls, and 
eyes filled with tears, came back to his place beside 
Maurice. 

The lawyers, meanwhile, were uttering their protests 
with increasing energy. But the duke, by a prolonged 
Hammering upon the table with his fist, at last suc- 
ceeded in reducing them to silence. 

“Ah! you wish testimony!” he exclaimed. “Very 
well, you shall have it. Soldiers, bring in the first 
witness.” 

A movement among the guards, and almost imme- 
diately Chupin appeared. He advanced deliberately, 
but his countenance betrayed him. A close observer 
could have read his anxiety and his terror in his eyes, 
which wandered restlessly about the room. 

And there was a very appreciable terror in his voice 
when, with hand uplifted, he swore to tell the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 

“What do you know regarding the prisoner D'Escor- 
val?” demanded the duke. 

“I know that he took part in the rebellion on the night 
of the fourth.” 

“Are you sure of this?” 

“I can furnish proofs.” 

“Submit them to the consideration of the commission,' 

The old scoundrel began to regain more confidence. 

“First,” he replied, “it was to the house of M. d’Escor- 
val that Lacheneur hastened after he had, much against 
his will, restored to Monsieur le Due the Chateau of Mon- 
sieur le Due’s ancestors. Monsieur Lacheneur met Chan- 
louineau there, and from that day dates the plot of this 
insurrection.” 


248 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I was Lacheneur’s friend,” said the baron; “it was 
perfectly natural that he should come to me for consola- 
tion after a great misfortune.” 

M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleagues. 

“You hear that!” said he. “This D’Escorval calls ^ 
the restitution of a deposit a great misfortune ! Go on, ' 
witness.” 

“In the second place,” resumed Chupin, “the accused 
was always prowling about Lacheneur’s house.” 

“That is false!” interrupted the baron. “I never 
visited the house but once, and on that occasion I im- 
plored him to renounce — ” He paused, comprehending 
only when it was too late the terrible significance of his 
words. But having begun, he would not retract, and he 
added: “I implored him to renounce this project of an 
insurrection.” 

“Ah! then you knew his wicked intentions?” 

“I suspected them.” 

“Not to reveal a conspiracy makes one an accomplice, 
•and means the guillotine.” 

Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death-warrant. 

Strange caprice of destiny! He was innocent, and 
yet he was the only one among the accused whom a 
regular tribunal could have legally condemned. 

Maurice and the abbe were prostrated with grief; but 
Chanlouineau, who turned toward them, had still upon 
his lips a smile of confidence. How could he hope, when 
all hope seemed absolutely lost? 

But the commissioners made no attempt to conceal 
their satisfaction. M. de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced 
an indecent joy. 

“Ah, well! messieurs!” he said to the lawyers, in a 
sneering tone. 

\ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


249 


The counsel for the defense poorly dissimulated their 
discouragement; but they nevertheless endeavored to 
question the validity of such a declaration on the part 
of their client. He had said that he suspected the conspir- 
acy, not that he knew it. It was quite a different thing. 

“Say at once that you wish still more overwhelming 
evidence,” interrupted the duke. “Very well! You 
shall have it. Continue your deposition, witness.” 

“The accused,” continued Chupin, “was present at all 
the conferences held at Lacheneur’s house. The proof 
of this is as clear as daylight. Being obliged to cross the 
Oiselle to reach the Reche, and fearing the ferryman 
would notice his frequent nocturnal voyages, the baron 
had an old boat repaired which he had not used for 
years.” 

“Ah! that is a remarkable circumstance, prisoner; do 
you recollect having your boat repaired?” 

“Yes; but not for the purpose which this man men- 
tions.” 

“For what purpose, then?” 

The baron made no response. Was it not in compli- 
ance with the request of Maurice that the boat had been 
put in order? 

“And finally,” continued Chupin, “when Lachenem 
set fire to his house to give the signal for the insurrec- 
tion, the prisoner was with him.” 

“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is conclusive evidence.” 

“I was, indeed, at the Reche,” interrupted the baron; 
“but it was, as I have already told you, with the firm 
determination of preventing this outbreak.” 

M. de Sairmeuse gave utterance to a little disdainful 
laugh. 

“Ah! gentlemen,” he said, addressing the commis- 


250 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


sioners, “can you not see that the prisoner’s courage 
does not equal his depravity? But I will confound him. 
What did you do, prisoner, when the insurgents left the 
Reche?” 

“I returned to my home with all possible haste, took 

horse and repaired to the Croix d’Arcy.” 

“Then you knew that this was the spot appointed for 
■Jie general rendezvous?” 

“Lacheneur had just informed me.” 

“If I believed your story, I should tell you that it was 
your duty to have hastened to Montaignac and informed 
the authorities. But what you say is untrue. You did 
not leave Lacheneur, you accompanied him.” 

“No, monsieur, no I” 

“And what if I could prove this fact beyond all ques- 
tion?” 

“Impossible, monsieur, since such was not the case.” 

By the malicious satisfaction that lighted M. de Sair- 
meuse’s face, the abbe knew that this wicked judge had 
some terrible weapon in his hands, and that Baron d’Es- 
corval was about to be overwhelmed by one of those 
fatal coincidences which explain, although they do not 
justify, judicial errors. 

At a sign from the counsel for the prosecution, the 
Marquis de Courtornieu left his seat and came forward 
to the platform. 

“I must request you. Monsieur le Marquis,” said the 
duke, “to have the goodness to read to the commission 
the deposition written and signed by your daughter.” 

This scene must have been prepared in advance for the 
audience. M. de Courtornieu cleaned his glasses, drew 
from his pocket a paper which he unfolded, and, amid a 
death-like silence, he’ read ; 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


251 


“I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that 
on the evening of the fourth of February, between ten 
and eleven o’clock, on the public road leading from Sair- 
meuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a crowd of armed 
brigands. While they were deliberating as to whether 
they should take possession of my person and pillage my 
carriage, I overheard one of these men say to another, 
speaking of me : ‘She must get out, must she not. Mon- 
sieur d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who ut- 
tered these words was a peasant named Chanlouineau, 
but I dare not assert it on oath.” 

A terrible cry, followed by inarticulate moans, inter- 
rupted the marquis. The suffering which Maurice en- 
dured was too great for his strength and his reason. He 
was about to spring forward and cry : “It was I who 
addressed those words to Chanlouineau. I alone am 
guilty; my father is innocent!” 

But, fortunately, the abbe had the presence of mind to 
hold him back, and place his hand over the poor youth’s 
lips. But the priest would not have been able to restrain 
Maurice without the aid of the retired army officers, who 
were standing beside him. Divining all, perhaps, they 
surrounded Maurice, took him up, and carried him from 
the room by main force, in spite of his violent resistance. 
All this occupied scarcely ten seconds. 

“What is the cause of this disturbance?” inquired the 
duke, looking angrily over the audience. No one uttered 
a word. “At the least noise the hall shall be cleared,” 
added M. de Sairmeuse. “And you, prisoner, what have 
you to say in self-justificatidn, after this crushing accu- 
sation by Mademoiselle de Courtornieu?” 

“Nothing,” murmured the baron. 

“So you confess your guilt?” 

Once outside, the abbe confided Maurice to the care of 


252 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


three of the officers, who promised to go with him, to 
carry him by main force, if need be, to the hotel, and 
to keep him there. 

Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall 
just in time to see the baron seat himself without mak- 
ing any reponse, thus indicating that he had relinquished 
all intention of defending his life. 

Really, what could he say? How could he defend 
himself without betraying his son? Until now there 
had not been one person who did not believe in the 
baron’s entire innocence. Could it be that he was 
guilty? His silence must be accepted as a confession 
of guilt ; at least, some present believed so. 

Baron d’Escorval appeared to be guilty. Was that 
not a sufficiently great victory for the Duke de Sair- 
meuse? He turned to the lawyers, and with an air of 
weariness and disdain he said : 

“Now speak, since it is absolutely necessary; but no 
long phrases. We should have finished here an hour 
ago.” 

The oldest lawyer rose, trembling with indignation, 
ready to dare anything for the sake of giving free utter- 
ance to his thought, but the baron cliecked him. 

“Do not try to defend me,” he said calmly; “it would 
be labor wasted. I have only a word to say to my judges. 
Let them remember what the noble and generous Marshal 
Moncey wrote to the king: “The scaffold does not make 
friends.” 

This recollection was not of a nature to soften the 
hearts of the judges. The marshal, for that saying, had 
been deprived of his office, and condemned to three 
months’ imprisonment. 

As the advocates made no further attempt to argue 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


253 


the case, the commission retired to deliberate. This 
gave M. d’Escorval an opportunity to speak with his 
defenders. He shook them warmly by the hand, and 
thanked them for their devotion and for their courage. 
The good men wept. Then the baron, turning to the 
oldest among them, quickly and in a low voice, said : 

“I have a last favor to ask of you. When the sen- 
tence of death shall have been pronounced upon me, go 
at once to my son. You will say to him that his dying 
father commands him to live — he will understand you. 
Tell him it is my last wish; that he live — live for his 
mother !” 

He said no more ; the judges were returning. 

Of the thirty prisoners, nine were declared not guilty, 
and released. The remaining twenty-one, and M. d’Es- 
corval and Chanlouineau were among the number, were 
condemned to death. 

But the smile had not once forsaken Chanlouineau’s 
lips. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The abbe had been right in feeling he could trust the 
officers to whose care he had confided Maurice. Finding 
their entreaties would not induce him to leave the cita- 
del, they seized him and literally carried him away. He 
made the most desperate efforts to escape ; each step was 
a struggle. 

j i “Leave me I” he exclaimed ; “let me go to where duty 
^alls me. You only dishonor me in pretending to save 
me I” 

His agony was terrible. He had thrown himself head- 


254 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


long into this absurd undertaking, and now the respon- 
sibility of his acts had fallen upon his father. He, the 
culprit, would live, and his innocent father would perish 
on the guillotine. It was to this his love for Marie- Anne 
had led him, that radiant love which in other days had 
smiled so joyously. 

But our capacity for suffering has its limits. When 
they had carried him to the room in the hotel where his 
mother and Marie- Anne were waiting in agonized sur- 
prise, that irresistible torpor which follows suffering too 
intense for human endurance, crept over him. 

“Nothing is decided yet,” the officers answered in re- 
sponse to Mme. d’Escorval’s questions. “The cure will 
hasten here as soon as the verdict is rendered.” Tlien, 
as they had promised not to lose sight of Maurice, they 
seated themselves in gloomy silence. 

The house was silent. One might have supposed the 
hotel deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the 
abbe came in, followed by the lawyer to whom the baron 
had confided his last wishes. 

“My husband!” exclaimed Mme. d’Escorval, spring- 
ing wildly from her chair. 

The priest bowed his head ; she understood. 

‘ ‘ Death ! ’ ’ she faltered. ‘ ‘They have condemned him ! ’ ’ 

And overcome by the terrible blow, she sank back, 
inert, with hanging arms. But this weakness did not 
last long ; she again sprang up, her eyes brilliant with 
heroic resolve. 

“We must save him!” she exclaimed. “We must 
wrest him from the scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie- 
Anne ! No more weak lamentations, we m ast to work ! 
You, also, gentlemen, will aid me. I can count upon 
your assistance. Monsieur le Cure. What are wa going 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


255 


to do? I do not know ! But something must be done. 
The death of this just man would be too great a crime. 
Gk)d will not permit it.” 

She suddenly paused, with clasped hands, and eyes 
uplifted to heaven, as if seeking divine inspiration.* 

“And the king,” she resumed— “will the king consent 
to such a crime? No. A king can refuse mercy, but he 
cannot refuse justice. I will go to him. I will tell him 
all I Why did not this thought come to me sooner? ,We 
must start for Paris without losing an instant. Maurice, 
you will accompany me. One of you gentlemen will go 
at once and order post-horses. ’ ’ 

Thinking they would obey her, she hastened into the 
next room to make preparations for her journey. 

“Poor woman I” the lawyer whispered to the abbe, 
“she does not know that the sentence of a military com- 
mission is executed in twenty-four hours.” 

“Well?” 

“It requires four days to make the journey to Paris.” 

He reflected a moment, then added : 

‘ ‘But, after all, to let her go would be an act of mercy. 
Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution, implore ‘ 
the king to order the removal of the wife who was sob- 
bing and moaning in his cell?” 

The abbe shook his head. ' 

“No,” said he; “Madame d’Escorval will never 
igive us if we prevent her from receiving her husband’s 
last farewell.” 

' She, at that very moment, re-entered the room, and 
Ifee priest ^as trying to gather courage to tell her the 
Ipruel truth, when some one knocked violently at the 
^oor. One of the officers went to open it, and Bavois, the 
(iorporal of grenadiers, entered, his right hand lifted to 


256 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


his cap, as if he were in the presence of his superior 
officer. 

“Is Mademoiselle Lacheneur here?” he demanded. 

Marie-Anne came forward. 

“I am she, monsieur,” she replied; “what do you 
desire of me?” 

“I am ordered, mademoiselle, to conduct you to the 
citadel.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Maurice, in a ferocious tone; “so 
they imprison women also 1” 

The worthy corporal struck himself a heavy blow upon 
the forehead. 

“I am an old stupid!” he exclaimed, “and express 
myself badly. I meant to say that I came to seek made- 
moiselle at the request of one of the condemned, a man 
named Chanlouineau, who desires to speak with her.” 

“Impossible, my good man,” said one of the officers, 
“they would not allow this lady to visit one of the con- 
demned without special permission — ” 

“Well, she has this permission,” said the old soldier. 
Assuring himself, with a glance, that he had nothing to 
fear from any one present, he added, in lower tones : 
“This Chanlouineau told me that the cure would under- 
stand his reasons.” 

Had the brave peasant really found some means oi 
salvation. The abbe almost began to believe it. 

“You must go with this worthy man, Marie-Anne,” 
said he. 

The poor girl shuddered at the thought of seeing Chan- 
louineau again, but the idea of refusing never once oc- 
curred to her. “Let us go,” she said, quietly. 

But the corporal did not stir from his place, and wink- 
ing, according to his habit when he desired to attract the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


257 


ijittention of his hearers: “In one moment,” he said. 
‘ ‘This Chanlouineau, who seems to be a shrewd fellow, 
told me to tell you that all was going well. May I be 
lianged if I can see how 1 Still, such is his opinion. He 
also told me to tell you not to stir from this place, and 
not to attempt anything until mademoiselle returns, 
which will be in less than an hour. He swears to you 
that he will keep his promise ; he only asks you to pledge 
your word that you will obey him—” 

“We will take no action until an hour has passed,” 
f aid the abbe. “I promise that — ” 

“That is all. Salute company. And now, mademoi- 
selle, on the double-quick, march ! The poor devil over 
there must be on coals of fire.” 

That a condemned prisoner should be allowed to re- 
ceive a visit from the daughter of the leader of the rebel- 
lion — of that Lacheneur who had succeeded in making 
Uis escape — was indeed surprising. 

But Chanlouineau had been ingenious enough to dis- 
cover a means of procuring this special permission. With 
. lis aim in view, when sentence of death was passed upon 
Jim, he pretended to be overcome with terror, and to 
j.cv'eep piteously. 

The soldiers could scarcely believe their eyes when 
hey saw this robust young fellow, who had been so in* 
olent and defiant a few hours before, so overcome that 
hey were obliged to carry him to his cell. 

There his lamentations were redoubled ; and he begged 
he guard to go to the Duke de Sairmeuse, or the Marquis 
le Courtornieu, and tell them he had revelations of the 
: -eatest importance to make. That potent word “reve- 
itions” made M. de Courtornieu hasten to the prisoner’s 
.ai. 


258 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


He found Chanlouineau on his knees, his features dis- 
torted by what was apparently an agony of fear. The 
man dragged himself toward him, took his hands and 
kissed them, imploring mercy and forgiveness, swearing 
that to preserve his life he was ready to do anything, 
yes, anything, even to delivering up M. Lacheneur. 

To capture Lacheneur ! Such a prospect had powerful 
attractions for the Marquis de Courtornieu. 

“Do you know, then, where this brigand is concealed?” 
he inquired. 

Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but de- 
clared that Marie-Anne, Lacheneur’s daughter, knew 
her father’s hiding-place. She had, he declared, perfect 
confidence in him ; and if they would only send for her, 
and allow him ten minutes’ private conversation with 
her, he was sure he could obtain the secret of her father’s 
place of concealment. So the bargain was quickly con- 
cluded. The prisoner’s life was promised him in ex- 
change for the life of Lacheneur. A soldier, who 
chanced to be Corporal Bavois, was sent to summon 
Marie-Anne. 

And Chanlouineau waited in terrible anxiety. No one,; 
had told him what had taken place at Escorval, but hou 
divined it by the aid of that strange prescience which so 
often illuminates the mind when death is near at hand. i 
He was almost certain that Mine. d’Escorval was in | 
Montaignac; he was equally certain that Marie-Anne I 
was with her, and if she were, he knew that she would | 
come. I 

And he waited, counting the seconds by the throbbings 
of his heart. He waited, understanding the cause of 
every sound without ; distinguishing, with the marvel- 
ous acuteness of senses excited to the highest pitch by 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


259 


i^assion, sounds which would have been inaudible to 
Another person. 

[ I At last, at the end of the corridor, he heard the rust- 

r iag of a dress against the wall. 

“It is she,” he murmured. 

Footsteps approached; the heavy bolts were drawn 
jack, the door opened, and Marie- Anne entered, accom- 
panied by Corporal Bavois. 

“M. de Courtomieu promised me that we should be 
left alone ! ” exclaimed Chanlouineau. 

‘ ‘Therefore I go at once, ’ ’ replied the old soldier. “But 
1 have orders to return for mademoiselle in half an hour. ” 
When the door closed behind the worthy corporal, 
Chanlouineau took Marie- Anne’s hand and drew her to 
‘the tiny grated window. 

“Thank you for coming, ’’said he, “thank you. I can 
see you and speak to you once more. Now that my 
lOurs are numbered, I may reveal the secret of my soul 
' md of my life. Now I can venture to tell you how ard- 
' mtly I have loved you — how much I still love you I” 
Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away her hand and 
’ •.:epped back. This outburst of passion, at such a mo- 
2 jnent, seemed at once unspeakably sad and frightful. 

0 f “Have I, then, offended you?” said Chanlouineau, 
“ ' adly. “Forgive one who is about to die I You cannot 
D -afuse to listen to the voice of one, who, after to-morrow, 
e vill have vanished from earth forever ! 
d" “I have loved you for a long time, Marie-Anne; for 
I lore than six years. Before I saw you, I loved only my 
Possessions. To raise fine crops, and to amass a fortune, 
)1 jcemed to me, then, the greatest possible happiness here 
1 'alow. 

“WTiy did I meet you? But at that time you were so 


260 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


high, and I so low, that never in my wildest dreams did 
I aspire to you. I went to church each Sunday only that 
I might worship you as peasant women worship the 
Blessed Virgin; I went home with my eyes and my 
heart full of you — and that was all. 

“Then came the misfortune that brought us nearer to 
each other ; and your father made me as insane, yes, as 
insane as himself. 

“After the insults he received ^rom the’ Sairmeuse, 
your father resolved to revenge himself upon these arro- 
gant nobles, and he selected me for his accomplice. He 
had read mj’^ heart. On leaving the house of Baron d’Es- 
corval, on that Sunday evening, which you must remem- 
ber, the compact that bound me to your father was made. 

“‘You love my daughter, my boy,’ said he. ‘Very 
well, aid me, and I promise you, in case we succeed, she 
shall be your wife. Only,’ he added, ‘I must warn you 
that you hazard your life. ’ 

“But what was life in comparison with the hope that 
dazzled me? From that night, I gave body, soul, and 
fortune to the cause. Others were influenced by hatred, 
or by ambition ; but I was actuated by neither of these 
motives. 

|£ 

“What did the quarrels of the great matter to me — a 
simple laborer? I knew that the greatest were powerless 
to give my crops a drop of rain in seasons of drought, or 
a ray of sunshine during the rain. 

“I took part in this conspiracy because I loved you — ” 

“Ah! you are cruel!” exclaimed Marie- Anne, ‘"you 
are pitiless!” 

It seemed to the poor girl that he was reproaching heij 
for the horrible fate which Lacheneur had brought upcai 
him, and for the terrible part which her father had im** 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


261 


posed upon her, and which she had not been strong 
enough to refuse to perform. 

But Chanlouineau scarcely heard Marie- Anne's excla- 
mation. All the bitterness of the past had mounted to 
his brain like fumes of alcohol. He was scarcely con- 
scious of his own words. 

“But the day soon came,” he continued, “when my 

' foolish illusions were destroyed. You could not be mine, 
since you belonged to another. I might have broken my 

I compact! I thought of doing so, but had not the cour- 

I I 

i I age. To see you, to hear your voice, to dwell beneath 
the same roof with you, was happiness. I longed to see 
you happy and honored ; I fought for the triumph of 

I I;. another, for him whom you had chosen — “ 

A sob that had risen in bis throat choked his utter- 
’ ance ; he buried his face in his hands to hide his tears, 
']' and, for a moment, seemed completely overcome. 

I But he mastered his weakness after a little, and, in a 
ll^ firm voice, he said : “We must not linger over the past. 
^ j'time flies, and the future is ominous.” 

’ * ' As he spoke, he went to the door and applied first his 
* ^^ye, then his ear to the opening, to see that there were 
iiko spies without. 

^ I ! No one was in the corridor ; he could not hear a sound. 

! He came back to Marie- Anne’s side, and tearing the 
*'Weeve of his jacket open with his teeth, he drew from it 
ifilFo letters, wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth. 
“Here,” he said, in a low voice, “is a man’s life I” 

" j Marie-Anne knew nothing of Chanlouineau ’s promises 
' ^nd hopes, and bewildered by her distress, she did not 
^ fet first understand. 

® ' “This,” she exclaimed, “is a man’s life?” 

“■;( “Hush! speak lower,” interrupted Chanlouineau. 


262 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Yes, one of these letters might, perhaps, save the life 
of one who has been condemned to death.” 

“Unfortunate man ! Why do you not make use of it 
and save yourself?” 

The young man sadly shook his head. 

“Is it possible that you could ever love me?” he said 
simply. “No, it is not. I have, therefore, no desire to 
live. Rest beneath the sod is preferable to the misery 
I am forced to endure. Moreover, I was justly con- 
demned. I knew what I was doing when I left the 
Reche with my gun upon my shoulder, and my sword 
by my side ; I have no right to complain. But those 
cruel judges have condemned an innocent man — ” 

“Baron d’Escorval?” 

“Yes — the father of — Maurice!” 

His voice changed in uttering the name of this man, 
for whose happiness he would have given ten lives had 
they been his to give. 

“I wish to save him,” he added, “I can do it.” 

“Oh! if what you said were true! But you undoubt- 
edly deceive yourself.” 

“I know what I am saying. ” 

Fearing that some spy outside would overhear him, he 
came close to Marie- Anne and said rapidly, and in a low 
voice : 

“I never believed in the success of this conspiracy* 
When I sought for a weapon of defense in case of 
failure, the Marquis de Sairmeuse furnished it. When 
it became necessarj’’ to send a circular, warning our ac-|j 
complices of the date decided upon for the uprising, I 
persuaded Monsieur Martial to write a model. He sus- 
pected nothing. I told him it was for a wedding ; he 
did what I asked. This letter, which is now in my pos- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


263 


Ipion, is the rough draft of the circular ; and it was 
|rittea by the hand of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. It is 
[npossible for him to deny it. There is an erasure on 
jpJOh line. Every one would regard it as the handiwork 
a man who was seeking to convey his real meaning in 
abiguous phrases. ’ ’ 

Chanlouineau opened the envelope and showed her 
le famous letter which he had dictated, and in which 
le space for the date of the insurrection was left blank. 

“My dear friend, we are at last agreed, and the mar- 
[|ge is decided,” etc. 

The light that had sparkled in Marie-Anne’s eye was 
jddenly extinguished. 

||“And you believe that this letter can be of any ser- 
'Oe?” she inquired, in evident discouragement. 

_! ‘T do not thinJc it, I know it !” 

!“But— ” 

jjwith a gesture, he interrupted her. 

'r'We must not lose time in discussion— listen to me. 

1 1 itself this letter might be unimportant, but I have 
, ranged matters in such a way that it will produce a 
ijl'^erful effect. I declared before the commission that 
ie Marquis de Sairmeuse was one of the leaders of the 
ijpWement. They laughed; and I read incredulity on 
jjp faces of the judges. But calumny is never without 
I effect. When the Duke de Sairmeuse is about to re- 
live a reward for his services, there will be enemies in 
inty to remember and to repeat my words. He knew 
.3 so well that he was greatly agitated, even while his 
ileagues sneered at my accusation.” 

'To accuse a man falsely is a crime,” murmured the 
nest Marie-Anne. 


264 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Yes, but I wish to save my friend, and I cannot choose, 
my means. I was all the more sure of success as I knew 
that the marquis had been wounded. I declared that he 
was fighting against the troops by my side ; I demanded 
that he should be summoned before the tribunal ; I told 

w.i.' 

them that I had in my possession unquestionable proofs 
of his complicity.” 

“Did you say that the Marquis de Sairmeuse had been 
wounded?” inquired Marie-Anne. 

Chanlouineau’s face betrayed the most intense aston- 
ishment. “What !” he exclaimed, “you do not know — ?” 

Then, after an instant’s reflection : “Fool that I am !” 
he resumed. “Who could have told you what had hap- 
pened? You remember that when we were traveling 
• over the Sairmeuse road on our way to Croix d’Arcy, 
and after your father had left us to ride on in advance, 
Maurice placed himself at the head of one division, and \ 
you walked beside him, while your brother Jean and my- 
self stayed behind to urge on the laggards. We were,: 
performing our duty conscientiously, when suddenly we 
heard the gallop of a horse behind us. ‘We must know 
who is coming,’ Jean said to me. 

“We paused. The horse soon reached us; we caught j 
the bridle and held him. Can you guess who the rfder 
was? Martial de Sairmeuse. 

“To describe your brother’s fury on recognizing the 
marquis would be impossible. ; 

“ ‘At last I find you, wretched noble!’ he exclaimed, I 
‘and now we will settle our accouiVt ! After reducing, j 
my father, who has just given yo^ ^C^fortune, to despair 
and penury, you have tried to degrade my sister. I will 
have my revenge ! Down, we must fight !’ ” ^ 

Marie-Anne could scarcely tell whether she was awake 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


265 


or dreaming. “My brother,” she murmured, “has chal- 
lenged the marquis ! Is it possible?” 

“Brave as Monsieur Martial is,” pursued Chanlouineau, 
“he did not seem inclined to accept the invitation. He 
stammered out something like this: ‘You are mad— you 
are jesting — have we not alwa5’-s been friends? What 
aoes this mean?’ 

“Jean ground his teeth in rage. ‘This means that we 
have endured your insulting familiarity long enough,’ 
he replied, ‘and if you do not dismount and meet me in 
open combat, I will blow your brains out ! ’ 

“Your brother, as he spoke, manipulated his pistol in 
so threatening a manner that the marquis dismounted, 
and addressing me : 

“ ‘You see, Chanlouineau,’ he said, ‘I must fight a duel 
or submit to assassination. If Jean kills me, there is no 
more to be said — but if I kill him, what is to be done?’ 

“I told him he would be free to depart on condition he 
would give me his word not to return to Montaignac be- 
fore two o’clock. 

“ ‘Then I accept the challenge,’ said he; ‘give me a 
weapon. ’ 

“I gave him my sword, your brother drew his, and 
they took their places in the middle of the highway.” 

The young farmer paused to take breath, then he said, 
more slowly : 

“Marie- Anne, your father and I have misjudged your 
brother. Poor Jean’s appearance is terribly against him. 
His face indica..es a treacherous, cowardly nature ; his 
smile is cunning, ‘ nd his eyes always shun yours. We 
have distrusted him, but we should ask his pardon. A 
man who fights as I saw him fight is deserving of confi- 
dence. For this combat in the public road, and in the 


266 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


darkness of the night, was terrible. They attacked each 
other silently but furiously. At last Jean fell.” 

“Ah ! my brother is dead !” exclaimed Marie- Anne. 

“No,” responded Chanlouineau ; “at least, we have 
reason to hope not; and I know he has not lacked any 
attention. This duel had another witness, a man named 
Poignot, whom you must remember ; he was one of your 
father’s tenants. He took Jean, promising me that he 
would conceal him .and care for him. 

“As for the marquis, he showed me that he, too, was 
wounded, and then he remounted his horse, saying : 

“ ‘What could I do? He would have it so.’ ” 

Marie- Anne understood now. 

“Give me the letter,” she said to Chanlouineau, “ I 
will go to the duke. I will find some way to reach him, 
and then God will tell me what course to pursue.” 

The noble peasant handed the girl the tiny scrap of • 
paper which might have been his own salvation. 

“On no account,” said he, “must you allow the duke 
to suppose that you have upon your person the proof 
with which you threaten him. Wlio knows of what he 
might be capable under such circumstances? He will 
say, at first, that he can do nothing — that he sees no way 
to save the baron. You will tell him that he must fin - 
a means, if he does not wish this letter sent to Paris, t, . 
one of his enemies — ” 

He paused ; he heard the grating of the bolt. Corpora' 
Bavois reappeared. 

“The half hour expired ten minutes ago,” he said, sad- 
ly. “I have my orders.” 

“Comillg,” said Chanlouineau, “all is ended!” And, 
handing'Marie-Anne the secoiid letter : “This is for you,” 
he added. “You will read it when I am no more. Pray, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


267 


pray do not weep thus !• Be brave ! You will soon be 
the wife of Maurice. And when you are happy, think 
sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so much !” 

Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she lifted her 
face to his. 

“Ah! I dared not ask it!” he exclaimed. And, for 
the first time, he clasped her in his arms, and pressed his 
lips to her pallid cheek. 

“Now, adieu!” he said, once more. “Do not lose a 
moment. Adieu!” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The prospect of capturing Lacheneur, the chief con- 
spirator, excited the Marquis de Courtornieu so much 
that he had not been able to tear himself away from the 
citadel to return home to his dinner. 

Remaining near the entrance of the dark Cj^rridor 

^ ' 

leading to Chanlouineau’s cell, he watched Marie-Anne 
depart ; but as he saw her go out into the twilight with 
a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden doubt of Chanloui- 
neau’s sincerity. 

“Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived 
me?” he thought. 

So strong was this suspicion that he hastened after her, 
determined to question her — to ascertain the truth — to 
arrest her, if necessary. 

But he no longer possessed the agility of youth, and 
when he reached the gateway, the guard told him that 
Mdlle. Lacheneur had already passed out. He rushed 
out after her, looked about on every side, but could see no 
trace of her. He re-entered the citadel, furious with 
himself for his own credulity. 


268 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


"Still, I can visit Chanlouineau,” thought he, "and to- 
morrow will be time enough to summon this creature 
and question her.” 

"This creature,” was even then hastening up the long, 
ill-paved street that led to the Hotel de France. 

Regardless of self, and of the curious gaze of the few 
oassers-by, she ran on, thinking only of shortening the 
terrible anxiety which her friends at the hotel must be 
enduring. "All is not lost !” she exclaimed, on re-enter- 
ing the room. 

"My God! Thou hast heard my prayers!” murmured 
the baroness. Then, suddenly seized by a horrible dread, 
she added: "Do not attempt to deceive me. Are you 
not trying to delude me with false hopes? That would 
be cruel !” 

“I am not deceiving you, madame. Chanlouineau has 
given me a weapon which, I hope and believe, places the 
Duke de Sairmeuse in our power. He is omnipotent in 
Montaignac ; the only man who could oppose him, Mon- 
sieur de Courtomieu, is his friend. I believe that 
Monsieur d’Escorval can be saved.” 

"Speak 1” cried Maurice; "what must we do?” 

"Pray and wait, Maurice. I must act alone in this 
matter, but be assured that I— the cause of all your mis- 
fortunes— will leave nothing undone which it is possible 
for mortal to do.” 

Absorbed in the task which she had imposed upon her- 
self, Marie- Anne had failed to remark a stranger who 
had arrived during her absence — an old white-haired 
peasant. The abbe called her attention to him. 

"Here is a courageous friend,” said he, "who, since 
morning, has been searching for you everywhere, in 
order to give you news of your father.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


269 


Marie- Anne was so overcome that she could scarcely 
falter her gratitude. 

“Oh! you need not thank me,” answered the brave 
peasant. “T said to myself: ‘The poor girl must be ter- 
ribly anxious. I ought to relieve her of her misery.’ So 
1 came to tell you that M. Lacheneur is safe and well, 
except for a wound in the leg, which causes him con- 
siderable suffering, but which will be healed in two or 
three weeks. My son-in-law, who was hunting yester- 
day in the mountains, met him near the frontier in com- 
pany with two of his friends. By this time he must be 
in Piedmont, beyond the reach of the gendarmes.” 

“Let us hope, now,” said the abbe, “that we shall soon 
hear what has become of Jean.” 

“I know, already, monsieur,” responded Marie- Anne; 
‘"‘my brother has been badly wounded, and he is now 
under the protection of kind friends.” 

She bowed her head, almost crushed beneath her bur- 
den of sorrow, but soon rallying, -she exclaimed : 

“What am I doing? What right have I to think of my 
friends, when upon my promptness and upon my cour- 
age depends the life of an innocent man compromised by 
them?” • 

Maurice, the abbe, and the officers surrounded the brave 
young girl. They wished to know what she was about 
to attempt, and to dissuade her from incurring useless 
danger. 

She refused to reply to their pressing questions. They 
wished to accompany her, or, at least, to follow her at a 
distance, but she declared that she must go alone. 

“I will return in less than two hours, and then we can 
decide what must be done,” said she, as she hastened 
away. 


270 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


To obtain an audience with the Duke de Sairmeuse 
was certainly a difficult matter ; Maurice and the abbe 
had proved that only too well the previous day. Be- 
sieged by weeping and heart-broken families, he shut 
himself up securely, fearing, perhaps, that he might be 
moved by their entreaties. 

Marie- Anne knew this, but it did not alarm her. Chan- 
louineau had given her a word, the same which he had 
used ; and this word was a key which would unlock the 
most firmly and obstinately locked doors. 

In the vestibule of the house occupied by the Duke de 
Sairmeuse, three or four valets stood talking. 

“I am the daughter of M. Lacheneur,” said Marie- 
Anne, addressing one of them. “I must speak to the 
duke at once, on matters connected with the revolt. ’ * 

“The duke is absent.” 

“I came to make a revelation.” 

The servant’s manner suddenly changed. 

“In that case, follow me, mademoiselle.” 

She followed him up the stairs and through two or 
three rooms. At last he opened a door, saying, “Enter.” 
She went in. 

It was not the Duke de Sairmeuse who was in the 
room, but his son. Martial. 

Stretched upon a sofa, he was reading a paper by the 
light of a large candelabra. 

On seeing Marie- Anne he sprang up, as pale and agf= 
tated as if the door had given passage to a specter. 

“You!” he stammered. 

But he quickly mastered his emotion, and in a second 
his quick mind revolved all the possibilities that might 
have produced this visit. 

“Lacheneur has been arrested!” he exclaimed, “and 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


271 


you, wishing to save him from the fate which the mili- 
tary commission will pronounce upon him, have thought 
of me. Thank you, dearest Marie-Anne, thank you for 
your confidence. I will not abuse it. Let your heart be 
reassured. We will save your father, I promise you — I 
swear it. How, I do not yet know. But what does that 
matter. It is enough that he shall be saved. I will have 
it so!” 

His voice betrayed the intense passion and joy that 
was surging in his heart. 

‘‘My father has not been arrested,” said Marie-Anne, 
coldly. 

“Then,” said Martial, with some hesitation— “then it 
is Jean who is a prisoner.” 

“My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds 
he will escape all attempts at capture.” 

From white the Marquis de Sairmeuse had turned as 
red as fire. By Marie- Anne’s manner he saw that she 
knew of the duel. He made no attempt to deny it ; but 
he tried to excuse himself. 

“It was Jean who challenged me,” said he; “I tried 
to avoid it. I only defended my own life in fair combat, 
and with equal weapons — ” 

Marie-Anne interrupted him. “I reproach you for noth- 
ing, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said quietly. 

“Ah! Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you. Jean 
was right to challenge me. I deserved his anger. He 
knew the baseness of which I had been guilty ; but you 
— you were ignorant of it. Oh ! Marie-Anne, if I wronged 
you in thought it was because I did not know you. Now 
I know that you, above all others, are pure and chaste.” 

He tried to take her hands ; she repulsed him with hor- 
ror, and broke into a fit of passionate sobbing. 


272 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Of all the blows she had received, this last was the 
most terrible and overwhelming. 

What humiliation and shame ! Now, indeed, was her 
cup of sorrow filled to overflowing. “Chaste and pure !” 
he had said. Oh, bitter mockery ! 

But Martial misunderstood the meaning of the poor 
girl’s gesture. 

“Oh! I comprehend your indignation,” he resumed, 
with growing eagerness. “But if I have injured you 
even in thought, I now offer you reparation. I have 
been a fool — a miserable fool — for I love you; I love, 
and can love you only. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. 
lam the possessor of millions. I entreat you, I implore 
you to be my wife.” 

Marie- Anne listened, in utter bewilderment. Vertigo 
seized her ; even reason seemed to totter upon its throne. 

But now, it had been Chanlouineau who, in his prison 
. cell, cried that he died for love of her. Now, it was Mar- 
tial, who avowed his willingness to sacrifice his ambition 
and his future for her sake. 

And the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son 
of the all-powerful Duke de Sairmeuse, had avowed their 
passion in almost the very same words. 

Martial paused, awaiting some response — a word, a 
gesture. But Marie-Anne remained mute, motionless, 
frozen. 

“You are silent,” he cried, with increasing vehemence. 
“Do you question my sincerity? No, it is impossible! 
Then why this silence? Do you fear my father’s oppo- 
sition? You need not. I know how to gain his consent. 
Besides, what does his approbation matter to us? Have 
we any need of him? Am I not my own master? Am 
I not rich— immensely rich? I should be a miserable 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


273 


fool, a coward, if I hesitated between his stupid preju- 
dices and the happiness of my life.” 

He was evidently obliging himself to weigh all the pos- 
sible objections, in order to answer them and overrule 
them. 

“Is it on account of your family that you hesitate*?” 
ne continued. “Your father and brother are pur- 
sued, and France is closed against them. Very well, 
we will leave France, and they shall come and live near 
you. Jean will no longer iislike me when you are my 
wife. We will all live in England, or in Italy. Now I 
am grateful for the fortune that will enable me to make 
life a continual enchantment for you. I love you — and 
in the happiness and tender love which shall be yours in 
the future, I will compel you to forget all the bitterness 
of the past !” 

Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well 
enough to understand the intensity of the love revealed 
by these astounding propositions. 

And for that very reason she hesitated to tell him that 
he had won this triumph over his pride in vain. 

She was anxiously wondering to what extremity his 
wounded vanity would carry him, and if a refusal would 
not transform him into a bitter enemy. 

“Why do you not answer?” asked Martial, with evi-* 
dent anxiety. 

She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say- 
something ; but she could not unclose her lips. 

“I ^m only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,” she 
murmured, at last. “If I accepted your offer, you would 
regret it continually.” 

“Never!” 

“But you are no longer free. You have already 


V 


274 MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

plighted your troth. Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtor- 
nieu is your promised wife.” 

“Ah ! say one word — only one — and this engagement, 
which I detest, is broken !” 

She was silent. It was evident that her mind was 
fully made up, and that she refused his offer. 

“Do you hate me, then?” asked Martial, sadly. 

If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth, 
Marie- Anne would have answered “Yes.” The Marquis 
de Sairmeuse did inspire her with an almost insur- 
mountable aversion. 

“I no more belong to myself than you belong to your- 
self, monsieur,” she faltered. 

A gleam of hatred, quickly extinguished, shone in Mar- 
tial’s eye. “Always Maurice !” said he. 

“Always!” 

She expected an angry outburst, but he remained per- 
fectly calm. 

“Then,” said he, with a forced smile, “I must believe 
this and other evidence. I must believe that you have 
forced me to play a most ridiculous part. Until now I 
doubted it.” 

The poor girl bowed her head, crimsoning with shame 
to the roots of her hair ; but she made no attempt at 
denial. 

“J was not my own mistress,” she stammered; “my 
father commanded and threatened, and I-rl obeyed 
him.” 

“That matters little,” he interrupted ; “your role has 
not been that which a pure young girl should play.” 

It was not the only reproach he had uttered, and still 
he regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to 
know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because — as 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


275 


he afterward declared — he could not overcome his love 
for Marie-Anne. 

“Now,” he resumed, “I imderstand your presence 
here. You come to ask mercy for Monsieur d’Escorval.” 

“Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent.” 

Martial approached Marie-Anne, and, lowering his 
voice: “If the father is innocent,” he whispered, “then 
it is the son who is guilty.” 

She recoiled in terror. He knew the secret which the 
judges could not, or would not penetrate. 

But, seeing her anguish, he had pity. 

“Another reason,” said he, “for attempting to save 
the baron I His blood shed upon the guillotine would 
form an impassable gulf between Maurice and you. I 
will join my efforts to yours.” 

Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not 
thank him. How was she about to reward his generos- 
ity ? By vilely traducing him. Ah ! she would infinitely 
have preferred to see him angry and revengeful. 

Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duke de 
Sairmeuse, still in full uniform, entered. 

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the 
threshold, “I must confess that Chupin is an admirable 
hunter. Thanks to him.” 

He paused abruptly ; he had not perceived Marie-Anne 
until now. 

“The daughter of that scoundrel Lacheneur 1” said he, 
with an air of the utmost surprise. “What does she de- 
sire here.” 

The decisive moment had come — the life of the baron 
hung upon Marie-Anne ’s courage and address. The con- 
sciousness of the terrible responsibility devoWing upon 
her restored her self-control and calmness as if by magic. 


276 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I have a revelation to sell to you, monsieur,” she said 
resolutely. 

The duke regarded her with mingled wonder and curi- 
osity ; then, laughing heartily, he threw himself on a 
sofa, exclaiming: 

“Sell it, my pretty one — sell it! I cannot speak until 
1 am alone with you.” At a sJlgn from his father. Mar- 
tial left the room. “You can speak now,” said the duke. 

She did not lose a second. 

“You must have read, monsieur,” she began, “the 
circular convening the conspirators?” 

“Certainly; I have a dozen copies in my pocket.^ 

“By whom do you suppose it was written?” 

“By the elder D’Escorval, or by your father.” 

“You are mistaken, monsieur; that letter was the 
work of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, your son.” 

Tlie duke sprang up, fire flashing from his eyes, his 
face purple with anger. - 

“Zounds 1 girl, I advise you to bridle your tongue !” 

“The proof of what I have asserted exists.” 

“Silence, you hussy ! or—” 

“The lady who sends me here, monsieur, possesses the 
original of this circular, written by the hand of Monsieur 
Martial, and I am obliged to tell you—” 

She did not have an opportunity to complete the sen- 
tence. The duke sprang to the door, and, in a voice of 
thunder, called his son. As soon as Martial entered the 
room : “Repeat,” said the duke— “repeat before my son 
what you have just said tq me !” 

Boldly, with head erect, and clear, firm voice, Marie- 
Anne repeated her accusation. She expected, on the 
part of the marquis, an indignant denial, cruel re- 
proaches, or an angry explanation. Not a word. He 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


277 


listened with a nonchalant air, and she almost believed 
she could read in his eyes an encouragement to proceed, 
and a promise of protection. 

When she had concluded: "‘Well!’* demanded the 
duke, imperiously. 

“First,” replied Martial, lightly, “I would like to see 
this famous circular.” 

The duke handed him a copy. “Here— read it !” 

Martial glanced over it, laughed heartily, and ex- 
claimed; “A clever trick!” 

“What do you say?” 

“I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal. Who the 
devil would have thought the fellow so cunning, to see 
his honest face. Another lesson to teach one not to trust 
to appearances.” 

In all his life the Duke de Sairmeuse had never re- 
ceived so severe a shock. 

“Chanlouineau was not lying, then,” he said, to his 
son, in a choked, unnatural voice; “you were one of the 
instigators of this rebellion, then?” 

Martial’s face grew dark, and, in a tone of disdainful 
hauteur, he replied : 

“This is the fourth time, sir, that you have addressed 
that question to me, and for the fourth time I answer: 
‘No.’ That should suffice. If the fancy had seized me 
for taking part in this movement, I should frankly con-* 
fess it. What possible reason could I have for conceal- 
ing anything from you?” 

“The facts !” interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of pas- 
sion; “the facts!” 

“Very well,” rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent 
tone; “the fact is that the model of this circular does 
•xist, that it was written in my best hand, on a very 


278 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


large sheet of very poor paper. I recollect that in try- 
ing to find appropriate expressions I erased and rewrote 
several words. Did I date this writing? I think I did, 
but I could not swear to it.” 

“How do you reconcile this with your denials?” ex- 
claimed M. de Sairmeuse. 

“I can do this easily. Did I not tell you, just now, 
that Chanlouineau had made a tool of me?” 

The duke no longer knew what to believe ; but what 
exasperated him more than all else was his son’s imper- 
turbable tranquillity. 

“Confess, rather, that you have been led into this filth 
by your mistress,” he retorted, pointing to Marie- Anne. 

But this insult Martial would not tolerate. “Mademoi- 
selle Lacheneur is not my mistress!” he replied, in a 
tone so imperious that it was a menace. “It is true, 
however, that it rests only with her to decide whether 
she will be the Marquise de Sairmeuse to-morrow. Let 
us abandon these recriminations, they do not further the 
progress of our business.” 

The faint glimmer of reason which still lighted M. de 
Sairmeuse’s mind, checked the still more insulting reply 
that rose to his lips. Trembling with suppressed rage, 
he made the circuit of the room several times, and finally 
paused before Marie-Anne, who remained in the same 
place, as motionless as a statue. 

“Come, my good girl, ’’said he, “give me the writing.'^ 

“It is not in my possession, sir.” 

“Where is it?” 

“In the hands of a person who will give it to you only 
imder certain conditions.” 

“Who is this person?” 

am not at liberty to tell you.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


There was both admiration and jealousy in the look 
that Martial fixed upon Marie- Anne. 

He was amazed by her coolness and presence of mind. 
Ah ! how powerful must be the passion that imparted 
such a ringing clearness to her voice, such brilliancy to 
her eyes, such precision to her responses. 

“And if I should not accept the — the conditions which 
are imposed, what then?” asked M. de Sairmeuse. 

“In that case the writing will be utilized.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“I mean, sir, that early to-morrow morning a trusty 
messenger will start for Paris, charged with the task of 
submitting this document to the eyes of certain persons 
who aye not exactly friends of yours. He will show it 
to Monsieur Laine, for example — or to the Duke de 
Richelieu ; and he will, of course, explain to them its 
significance and its value. Will this writing prove the 
complicity of the Marquis de Sairmeuse? Yes, or no? 
Have you, or have you not, dared to try and condemn 
to death the unfortunate men who were only the tools 
of your son?” 

“Ah, wretch! hussy! viper!” interrupted the duke. 
He was beside himself. A foam gathered upon his lips ; 
his eyes seemed starting from their sockets ; he was nr 
longer conscious of what he was saying. 

“This,” he exclaimed, with wild gestures, “is enougv:i 
to appall me ! Yes, I have bitter enemies, envious rivals, 
who would give their right hand for this execrable let- 
ter. Ah ! if they obtain it they will demand an investi- 
gation, and then farewell to the rewards due to my 
services ! 

“It will be shouted from the housetops that Chanloui- 
neau, in the presence of the tribunal, declared you, mar- 


280 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


quis, his leader and his accomplice. You will be obliged 
to submit to the scrutiny of physicians, who, seeing a 
freshly-healed wound, will require you to tell where you 
received it, and why you concealed it. 

“Of what shall I not be accused? They will say that 
I expedited matters in order to silence the voice that had 
been raised against my son. Perhaps they will even say 
that 1 secretly favored the insurrection ; I shall be vilified 
in the journals. 

“And who has thus ruined the fortunes of our 
house, that promised so brilliantly? You, you alone, 
marquis ! 

“You believe in nothing, you doubt everything — you 
are cold, skeptical, disdainful, blase. But a pretty wo- 
man makes her appearance on the scene. You go wild 
like a school-boy, and are ready to commit any act of 
folly. It is you whom I am addressing, marquis. Do 
you hear me? Speak ! what have you to say?” 

Martial had listened to this tirade with unconcealed 
scorn, and without even attempting to interrupt it. 

Now he responded, slowly : 

“I think, sir, if Mademoiselle Lacheneur had had any 
doubts of the value of the document she possesses, she 
has them no longer.” 

This response fell upon the duke’s wrath like a bucket 
of ice water. He instantly comprehended his folly ; and 
frightened by his own words, he stood stupefied with 
astonishment. 

Without deigning to add another word, the marquis 
turned to Marie- Anne. 

“Will you be so kind as to explain what is required of 
my father in exchange for this letter?” 

“The life and liberty of Monsieur d’Escorval I” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


281 


The duke started as if he had received an electric 
shock. 

“Ah !“ he exclaimed. “I knew they would ask some- 
thing that was impossible!” He sank back in his arm- 
chair. A profound despair succeeded his frenzy. He 
buried his face in his hands, evidently seeking some ex- 
pedient. “Why did you not come to me before judg- 
ment was pronounced?” he murmured. “Then, I could 
have done anything — now, my hands are. bound. The 
commission has spoken ; the judgment must be exe- 
cuted — ” He rose, and, in the tone of a man who is 
resigned to anything, he said: “Decidedly, I should risk 
more in attempting to save the baron” — in his anxiety 
he gave M. d’Escorval his title — “a thousand times more 
than I have to fear from my enemies. So, mademoi- 
selle” — he no longer said “my good girl”— “you can 
utilize your document I” 

The duke was about leaving the room, but Martial de- 
tained him by a gesture. 

“Think again before you decide. Our situation is not 
without a precedent. A few months ago the Count de 
Lavalette was condemned to death. The king wished 
to pardon him, but his ministers and friends opposed it. 
Though the king was master, what did he do ? He seemed 
to be deaf to all the supplications made in the prisoner’s 
behalf. The scaffold was erected, and yet Lavalette was 
saved I And no on^ was compromised — yes, a jailer lost 
his position; he is living on his income now.” 

Marie- Anne caught eagerly at the idea, so cleverly pre- 
sented by Martial. 

“Yes,” she exclaimed, “the Count de Lavalette, pro- 
tected by royal connivance, succeeded in making his 
escape. ’ ’ 


282 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The simplicity of the expedient — the authority of the 
example — seemed to make a vivid impression upon the 
duke. He was silent for a moment, and Marie-Anne 
fancied she saw an expression of relief steal over his 
face. 

“Such an attempt would be very hazardous,” he mur- 
'iiured; “yet, with care, and if one were sure that the 
.ecret would be kept — ” 

“Oh! the secret will be religiously preserved, mon- 
sieur,” interrupted Marie-Anne. 

With a glance. Martial recommended silence; then 
turning to his father, he said: 

“One can always consider an expedient, and calculate 
the consequences — that does not bind one. When is this 
sentence to be carried into execution?” 

“To-morrow,” responded the duke. 

But even this terrible response did not cause Marie- 
Anne any alarm. The duke’s anxiety and terror had 
taught hei how much reason she had to hope ; and she 
saw that Martial had Openly espoused her cause. 

“We have, then, only the night before us,” resumed 
the marquis. “Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, 
and until ten o’clock my father can visit the citadel 
without exciting the slightest suspicion. ’ ’ 

He paused suddenly. His. e3’’es, in which had shomv 
almost absolute confidence, became gloomy. He hac. 
just discovered an unexpected and, as it seemed to him- 
an almost insurmountable difficulty. 

“Have we any intelligent men in the citadel?” he 
murmured. “The assistance of a jailer or of a soldier 
is indispensable.” 

He turned to his father, and bruskly asked: “Have 
you any man in whom you can confide?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


283 


“I have three or four spies — they might be bought — ” 

“No! the wretch who betrays his comrade for a few 
sous, will betray you for a few louis. We must have 
an honest man who sympathizes with the opinions of 
Baron d’Escorval — an old soldier who fought under 
Napoleon, if possible.” 

A sudden inspiration visited Marie- Anne’s mind. 

“I know the man that you require 1” she cried. 

“You?” 

“Yes, I. At the citadel.” 

“Take care! Remember that he must risk much. If 
this should be discovered, those who take part in it will 
be sacrificed.” 

“He of whom I speak is the man you need. I will be 
responsible for him. ’ ’ 

“And is he a soldier?” 

“He is only a humble corporal; but the nobility of 
his nature entitles him to the highest rank. Believe me, 
we can safely confide in him.” 

If she spoke thus, she who would willingly have given 
her life for the baron’s salvation, she must be absolutely 
certain. 

So thought Martial. “I will confer with this man,” 
said he. “What is his name?” 

“He is called Bavois, and he is corporal in the firsl; 
company of grenadiers.” 

“Bavois!” repeated Martial, as if to fix the name in 
his memory ; “Bavois ! My father will find some pretext 
for desiring him summoned. 

“It is easy to find a pretext. He was the brave sol- 
dier left on guard at Escorval after the troops left the 
house.” 

“This promises well,” said Martial. He had risen and 


284 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


had gone to the fire-place in order to be nearer his 
father. 

“I suppose,” he continued, “the baron has been sepa- 
rated from the other prisoners? ” 

“Yes, he is alone, in a large and very comfortable 
:^;oom.” 

“Where is it?” 

“On the second story of the corner tower.” 

But Martial, who was not so well acquainted with 
the citadel as his father, was obliged to reflect a 
moment. 

“The corner tower?” said he. “Is not that the tall 
tower which one sees from a distance, and which is built 
on a spot where the rock is almost perpendicular?” 

“Precisely.” 

By the promptness M. de Sairmeuse displayed in reply- 
ing, it was easy to see that he was ready to risk a good 
deal to effect the prisoner’s deliverance. 

“What kind of a window is that in the baron’s room?” 
inquired Martial. 

“It is quite large and furnished with a double row of 
iron bars, securely fastened into the stone walls.” 

“It is easy enough to cut these bars. On which side 
does this window look?” 

“On the country.” 

“That is to say it overlooks the precipice. The devil I 
That is a serious difficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is 
an advantage, for they station no sentinels there, do 
• they?” 

“Never. Between* the citadel and wall and the edge 
of the precipice there is barely standing room. The sol- 
diers do not venture there even in the daytime.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


285 


“There is one more important question. Wliat is the 
distance from Monsieur d’Escorval’s window to the 
ground?” 

“It is about forty feet from the base of the tower.” 

“Good! And from the base of the tower to the foot 
of the precipice — how far is that?” 

“Really, I scarcely know. Sixty feet, at least, I should 
think.” 

“Ah! th'^t is high, terrible high. Tlie baron, fortu- 
nately, is still agile and vigorous.” 

The duke began to be impatient. * 

“Now,” said he, to his son, “will you be so kind as 
to explain your plan?” 

Martial had gradually resumed the careless tone which 
always exasperated his father. 

“He iasure of success,” thought Marie- Anne. 

‘ ‘My plan is simplicity itself, ’ ’ replied Martial. ‘ ‘Sixty 
and forty are one hundred. It is necessary to procure 
one hundred feet of strong rope. It will make a very 
large bundle ; but no matter. I will twist it around me, 
envelop myself in a large cloak, and accompany you to 
the citadel. You will send for Corporal Bavois ; you 
will leave me alone with him in a quiet place ; I will 
explain our wishes. ” 

M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. 

“And how will you procure a hundred feet of rope, at 
this hour, in Montaignac? Will you go about from shop 
to shop? You might as well trumpet your project at 
once.” 

“I shall attempt nothing of the kind. What I cannot 
do, the friends of the Escorval family will do.” 

The duke was about to offer some new objection, when 
his son interrupted him. 


286 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Pray do not forget the danger that threatens us,” he 
said, earnestly, “nor the little time that is left us. I 
have committed a fault, leave me to repair it.” And, 
turning to Marie- Anne: “You may consider the baron 
saved,” he pursued; “but it is necessary for me to con- 
fer with one of his friends. Return at once to the Hotel 
de France, and tell tlie cure to meet me on the Place 
d’ Armes, where I go to await him. ’ ’ 




END OF PART ONE OF VOLUME TWO, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

THE HONOR OF THE NAME. 

(CONTINUED.) - 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Though among the first to be arrested at the time of 
the panic before Montaignac, the Baron d’Escorval had 
not for an instant deluded himself with false hopes. 

“I am a lost man!” he thought. And confronting 
death calmly, he now thought only of the danger that 
threatened his son. His mistake before the judges was 
the result of this preoccupation. He did not breathe 
freely until he saw Maurice led from the hall by Abbe 
Midon and the friendly officers, for he knew that His son 
would try to confess his connection with the affair. 
Then, calm and composed, with head erect, and stead- 
fast eye, he listened to the death sentence. In the con- 
fusion that ensued in removing the prisoners from the 
hall, the baron found himself beside Chanlouineau, who 
had begun his noisy lamentations. 

'^“Courage, my boy,” he said, indignant at such appar- 
ent cowardice. 

“Ah! it is easy to talk,” whined the young farmer. 
Then, seeing that no one was observing them, he leaned 
toward the baron, and whispered: “It is for you lam 
workinp- Save all your strength foi; to-night.” 

( 3 ) 


4 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Chanlouineau’s words and burning glance surprised 
M. d’Escorval, but lie attributed both to fear. 

When the guards took him back to his cell, he threw 
himself upon his pallet, and before him rose that vision 
of the last hour, which is at once the hope and despair 
of those who are about to die. 

He knew the terrible laws that govern a court-mar- 
tial. The next day— in a few hours— at dawn, perhaps, 
they would take him from his cell, place him in front 
of a squad of soldiers, an officer would lift his sword, 
and all would be over. 

Then what was to become of his wife and his son? 

His agony on thinking of these dear ones was terrible. 
He was alone ; he wept. 

But suddenly he started up, ashamed of his weakness. 
He must not allow these thoughts to unnerve him. He 
was determined to meet death imflinchingly. Resolved 
to shake off the profound melancholy that was creeping 
over him, he walked about his cell, forcing his mind to 
occupy itself with material objects. 

The room which had been allotted to him was very 
large. It had once communicated with the apartment 
adjoining ; but the door had been walled up for a long 
time. The cement which held the large blo<3ks of stone 
together had crumbled away, leaving crevices through 
which one might look from one room into the other. 

M. d’Escorval mechanically applied his eye to one 
these interstices. Perhaps he had a friend for a neigh- 
bor, some wretched man who was to share his fate. He 
saw no one. He called, first in a whisper, then louder. 
No voice responded to his. 

“If I could only tear down this thin partition,” ho 
thought. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


5 


He trembled, then shrugged his shoulders. And if he 
did, what then? He would only find himself in another 
apartment similar to his own, and opening like his upon 
a corridor full of guards, whose monotonous tramp he 
could plainly hear as they paced to and fro. 

What folly to think of escape I He knew that every 
possible precaution must have been taken to guard 
against it. 

Yes, he knew this, and yet he could not refrain from 
examining his window. Two rows of iron bars protected 
it. These were placed in such a way that it was impos- 
sible for him to put out his head and see how far he was 
above the ground. The height, however, must be con- 
siderable, judging from the extent of the view. 

The sun was setting; and through the violet haze the 
baron could discern an undulating line of hills, whose 
culminating point must be the land of the Reche. The 
dark masses of foliage that he saw on the right were 
probably the forests of Sairmeuse. On the left, he 
divined rather than saw, nestling between the hills, the 
valley of the Oiselle and Escorval. 

Escorval, that lovely retreat where he had known such 
happiness, where he had hoped to die the calm and serene 
death of the just. And remembering his past felicity, 
and thinking of his vanished dreams, his eyes once more 
filled with tears. But he quickly dried them on hearing 
the door of his cell open. 

Two soldiers appeared. One of them bore a torch, the 
other, one of those long baskets divided into compart- 
ments which are used in carrying meals to the officers 
of the guard. These men were evidently deeply moved, 
and yet obeying a sentiment of instinctive delicacy, they 
affected a sort of gayety. 


6 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Here is your dinner, monsieur,” said one soldier; “it 
ought to be very good, for it comes from the cuisine of 
the commander of the citadel.” 

M. d'Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions on the 
part of one’s jailer have a sinister significance. Still, 
when he seated himself before the little table which they 
prepared for him, he found that he was really hungry. 
He ate with a relish, and chatted quite cheerfully with 
the soldiers. 

“Always hope for the best, sir,” said one of these 
worthy fellows. “Who knows? Stranger things have 
happened 1” 

When the baron finished his repast, he asked for pen, 
ink, and paper. They brought what he desired. 

He found himself again alone; but his conversation 
with the soldiers had been of service to him. His weak- 
ness had passed ; his sang-froid had returned ; he could 
now reflect. 

He was surprised that he had heard nothing from 
Mme. d’Escorval and from Maurice. Could it be that 
they had been refused access to the prison? No, that 
could not be ; he could not imagine that there existed 
men sufficiently cruel to prevent a doomed man from 
pressing to his heart, in a last embrace, his wife and uis 
son. Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor Mau- 
rice had made an attempt to see him? Something must 
have prevented them from doing so. What could ’Xbe? 

He imagined the worst misfortunes. He saw his wife 
writhing in agony, perhaps dead. He pictured Maurice, 
wild with grief, upon his knees at the bedside of his 
mother. But they might come yet. He consulted his 
watch. It marked the hour of seven. But he waited 
in vain. No one came. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 

He took up his pen, and was about to write, when 
heard a bustle in the corridor outside. The clink of 
spurs resounded on the flags ; he heard the sharp clink 
of the rifle as the guard presented arms. 

Trembling, the baron sprang up, saying : 

“They have come at last 

He was mistaken; the footsteps died away in the 
distance. 

“A round of inspection!” he murmured. 

But at the same moment, two objects thrown through 
the tiny opening in the door of his cell fell on the floor 
in the middle of the room. M. d’Escorval caught them 
up. Some one had thrown him two files. 

His first feeling was one of distrust. He knew that 
there were jailers who left no means untried to dishonor 
their prisoners before delivering them to the executioner. 
AVas it a friend, or an enemy, that had given him these 
instruments of deliverance and of liberty? 

Chanlouineau’s words and the look that accompanied 
them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more. 

He was standing with knitted brows, turning and re- 
turning the fine and well-tempered files in his hands, 
when he suddenly perceived upon, the floor a tiny scrap 
of paper which had, at first, escaped his notice. He 
snatched it up, unfolded it, and read: 

“Your friends are at work. Everything is prepared 
for your escape. Make haste and saw the bars of your 
window. Maurice and his mother embrace you. Hope, 
courage 1” 

Beneath these few lines was the letter M. But the 
baron did not need this initial to be reassured. He had 
recognized Abbe Midon’s handwriting. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Ah I he is a true friend,” he murmured. Then the 
recollection of his doubts and despair arose in his mind. 

“This explains why neither my wife nor son came to 
visit me,” he thought. “And I doubted their energy— 
and I was complaining of their neglect !” 

Intense joy filled his breast; he raised the letter that 
promised him life and liberty to his and enthusias- 
tically exclaimed : “To work ! to woil I ' 

He had chosen the finest of the two files, and was about 
to attack the ponderous bars, when he fancied he heard 
some one open the door of the next room. 

Some one had opened it, certainly. The person closed 
it again, but did not lock it. 

Then the baron heard some one moving cautiously 
about. What did all this mean? Were they incarcer- 
ating some new prisoner, or were they stationing a spy 
there? Listening breathlessly, the baron heard a singu- 
lar sound, whose cause it was absolutely impossible 
to explain. 

Noiselessly he advanced to the former communicating 
door, knelt, and peered through one of the interstices. 
The sight that met his eyes amazed him. 

A man was standing in a corner of the room. The 
baron could see the lower part of the man’s body by the 
light of a large lantern which he had deposited on the 
fioor at his feet. He was turning around and around 
very quickly, by this movement unwinding a long rope 
which had been twined around his body as thread is 
wound about a bobbin. 

M. d’Escorval rubbed his eyes, as if to assure himself 
that he was not dreaming. Evidently this rope was in- 
tended for him. It was Jo be attached to the broken 
bars. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


9 


But how had this man succeeded in gaining admission 
into this room? Who could it be that enjoyed such 
liberty in the prison? He was not a soldier — or, at 
least, he did not wear a uniform. 

Unfortunately, the highest crevice was in such a place 
that the visual ray did not strike the upper part of the 
man’s body; and, despite the baron’s efforts, he was 
unable to see the face of this friend— he judged him to 
be such — whose boldness verged on folly. 

Unable to resist his intense curiosity, M. d’Escorval 
was on the point of rapping on the wall to question him, 
when the door of tbe room occupied by this man, whom 
the baron already called his savior, was impetuously 
thrown open. 

Another man entered, whose face was also outside the 
baron’s range of vision ; and the newcomer, in a tone of 
astonishment, exclaimed : 

“Good heavens ! what are you doing?” 

The baron drew back in despair. “All is discovered I” 
he thought. 

The man whom M. d’Escorval believed to be his friend 
did not pause in his labor of unwinding the rope, and it 
was in the most tranquil voice that he responded ; 

“As you see, I am freeing myself from this burden of 
rope, which I find extremely uncomfortable. There are 
at least sixty yards of it, I should think— and what a 
bundle it makes ! I feared they would discover it under 
my cloak.” 

“And what are you going to do with all this rope?” 
inquired the newcomer. 

“I am going to hand it to Baron d’Escorval, to whom 
I have already given a file. He must make his escape 
to-night.” 


10 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


So improbable was this scene, that the baron could not 
believe his own ears. 

“I cannot be awake ; I must be dreaming,” he thought. 

The newcomer uttered a terrible oath, and, in an al- 
most threatening tone, he said : 

“We will see about that! If you have gone mad, I, 
thank God 1 still possess my reason ! I will not permit—’ ’ 

“Pardon,” interrupted the other coldly, “you will per- 
mit it. This is merely the result of your own— credul- 
ity. When Chanlouineau asked you to allow him to re- 
ceive a visit from Mademoiselle Lacheneur, that was the 
time you should have said: ‘I will not permit it.’ Do 
you know what the fellow desired? Simply to give 
Mademoiselle Lacheneur a letter of mine, so compromis- 
ing in its nature, that if it ever reaches the hands of a 
certain person of my acquaintance, my father and I will 
be obliged to reside in London in future. Then farewell 
to the projects for an alliance between our two families !” 

The newcomer heaved a mighty sigh, accompanied by 
a half angry, half sorrowful exclamation ; but the other, 
without giving him any opportunity to reply, resumed : 

“You, yourself, marquis, would doubtless be com- 
promised. Were you not a chamberlain during the 
reign of Bonaparte? Ah! marquis, how could a man 
of your experience, a man so subtle, and penetrating, 
and acute, allow himself to be duped by a low, ignorant 
peasant?” 

Now M. d’Escorval understood. He was not dream- 
ing; it was the Marquis de Courtornieu and Martial de 
Sairmeuse who were talking on the other side of the wall. 

This poor M. de Courtornieu had been so entirely 
crushed by Martial’s revelation that he no longer made 
any effort to oppose him. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


11 


“And this terrible letter?” he groaned. 

“Marie- Anne Lacheneur gave it to Abbe Midon, who 
came to me and said : ‘Either the baron will escape, or 
this letter will be taken to the Duke de Richelieu.’ I 
voted for the baron’s escape, I assure you. The abbe 
procured all that was necessary ; he met me at a rendez- 
vous which I appointed in a quiet spot ; he coiled all 
this rope about my body, and here I am.” 

“Then you think if the baron escapes they will give 
you back your letter?”. 

‘ ‘Most assuredly. ’ ’ 

“Deluded man! As soon as the baron is safe, they 
will demand the life of another prisoner, with tlie same 
menaces.” 

“By no means.” 

“You will see.” 

“I shall see nothing of the kind, for a very simple rea- 
son. I have the letter now in my pocket. The abbe 
gave it to me in exchange for my word of honor.” 

M. de Courtornieu’s exclamation proved that he con- 
sidered the abbe an egregious fool. 

“What!” he exclaimed. “You hold the proof, and — 
But this is madness ! Burn this accursed letter by the 
flames of this lantern, and let the baron go where bis 
slumbers will be undisturbed !” 

Martial’s silen’ce betrayed something like stupor. 

“What! you would do this — you?” he demanded, at 
last. 

“Certainly — and without the slightest hesitation !” 

“Ah, well !• I cannot say that I congratulate you.” 

The sneer was so apparent that M. de Courtornieu was 
sorely tempted to make an angry response. But he was 
not a man to yield to his first impulse— this former cham- 


12 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


berlaiii under the emperor, now become a grand prevot 
under the Restoration. 

He reflected. Should he, on account of a sharp word, 
quarrel with Martial — with the only suitor who had 
pleased his daughter? A rupture— then he would be left 
without any prospect of a son-in-law 1 When would 
Heaven send him such another I And how furious 
Mdlle. Blanche would be I He concluded to swallow 
the bitter pill; and it was with a paternal indulgence 
of manner that he said : - 

“You are young, 'my dear Martial.” 

The baron was still kneeling by the partition, his ear 
glued to the crevices, holding his breath in an agony of 
suspense. 

“You are only twenty, my dear Martial,” puraued the 
Marquis de Courtornieu; “you possess the ardent enthu- 
siasm and generosity of youth. Complete your under- 
taking ; I shall interpose no obstacle ; but remember that 
all may be discovered — and then — ” 

“Have no fears, sir,” interrupted the young marquis; 
“I have taken every precaution. Did you see a single 
soldier in the corridor, just now? No. That is because 
my father has, at my solicitation, assembled all the offi- 
cers and guards under pretext of ordering exceptional 
precautions. He is talking to them now. This gave me 
an opportunity to come here unobserved. No one will 
see me when I go out. Who, then, will dare suspect me 
of having any hand in the baron’s escape?”- 

“If the baron escapes, justice will demand to know 
who aided him.” 

Martial laughed. “If justice seeks to know, she will 
find a culprit of my providing. Go, now ; I have told 
you all. I had but one person to fear ; that was your- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


13 


self. A trusty messenger requested you to join me here. 
You came; you know all, you have agreed to remain 
neutral. I am tranquil. The baron will be safe in 
Piedmont when the sun rises.” He picked up his lan- 
tern, and added gayly : “But let us go— my father can- 
not harangue those soldiers forever.” 

“But,” insisted M. de Courtornieu, “you have not told 
me — ” 

“I will tell you all, but not here. Come, come !” 

They went out, locking the door behind them; and 
then the baron rose from his knees. All sorts of con- 
tradictory ideas, doubts and conjectures filled his mind. 
What could this letter have contained? Why had not 
Chanlouineau used it to procure his own salvation ? Who 
would have believed that Martial would be so faithful 
to a promise wrested from him by threats? 

But this was a time for action, not for reflection. The 
bars were heavy, and there were two rows of them. M. 
d’Escorval set to work. 

He had supposed that the task would be difficult. It 
was a thousand times more so than he had expected ; he 
discovered this almost immediately. It was the first 
time that he had ever worked with a file, and he did 
not know how to use it. His progress was despairingly 
slow. 

Nor was that all. Though he worked as cautiously as 
possible, each movement of the instrument across the 
iron produced a harsh, grating sound that froze his blood 
w’ith terror. What if some one should overhear this 
noise? And it seemed to him impossible for it to escape 
notice, since he could plainly distinguish the measured 
tread of the guards, who had resumed their watch in 
the corridor. 


14 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


So slight was the result of his labors tliat at the end 
of twenty minutes he experienced a feeling of profound 
discouragement. At this rate, it would be impossible for 
him to sever the first bar before daybreak. What, then, 
was the use of spending his time in fruitless labor? Why 
mar the dignity of death by the disgrace of an unsuc- 
cessful effort to escape? 

He was hesitating, when footsteps approached his cell. 
He hastened to seat himself at the table. The door opened 
and a soldier entered, to whom an officer who did not 
cross the threshold, remarked : 

“You have your instructions, corporal; keep a close 
watch. If the prisoner needs anything, call.” 

M. d’EscorvaTs heart throbbed almost to bursting. 
What was coming now? 

Had M. de Courtornieu’s counsels carried the day, or 
had Martial sent some one to aid him? 

“We must not be dawdling here,” said the corporal, 
as soon as the door was closed. 

M. d’Escorval bounded from his chair. This man was 
a friend. Here was aid and life ! 

“I am Bavois,” continued the corporal. “Some one 
said to me just now : ‘A friend of the eniperor is in dan- 
ger; are you willing to lend him a helping hand?’ I 
replied: ‘Present,’ and here I am !” 

This certainly was a brave soul. The baron extended 
his hand, and in a voice trembling with emotion: 
“Thanks,” said he; “thanks to you who, without know- 
ing me, expose yourself to the greatest danger for my 
sake.” 

Bavois shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Posi- 
tively, my old hide is no more precious than yours. If 
wc do not succeed, they will chop off our heads with the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


15 


same ax. But we shall succeed. Now, let us cease talk- 
ing and proceed to business.” 

As he spoke, he drew from beneath his long overcoat 
a strong iron crowbar and a small vial of brandy, and 
deposited them upon the bed. He then took the candle 
and passed it back and forth before the window five or 
six times. 

“What are you doing?” inquired the baron, in sus- 
pense. 

“I am signaling to your friends that everything is pro- 
gressing favorably. They are down there waiting for us ; 
and see, now they are answering.” 

The baron looked, and three times he saw a little flash 
of flame, like that produced by the burning of pinch of 
gunpowder. 

“Now,” said the corporal, “we are all right. Let us 
see what progress you have made with the bars.” 

“I have scarcely begun,” murmured M. d'Escorval. 

The corporal inspected the work. “You may, indeed, 
say that you have made no progress,” said he; “but, 
never mind, I have been a locksmith, and I know how 
to handle a file.” 

Having drawn the cork from the vial of brandy which 
he had brought, he fastened the stopper to the end of one 
of the files, and swathed the handle of the instrument 
with a piece of damp linen. 

“That is what we call putting a stop on the instru- 
ment,” he remarked, by way of explanation. Then he 
made an energetic attack on the bars. It at once became 
evident that he had not exaggerated his knowledge of 
the subject, nor the efficacy of his precautions for dead- 
ening the sound. The harsh grating that had so alarmed 
the baron was no longer heard, and Bavois, finding he 


V 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


16 

had nothing more to dread from the keenest ears, now 
made preparations to shelter himself from observation. 

To cover the opening in the door would arouse suspi- 
cion at once— so the corporal adopted another expedient. 
Moving the little table to another part of the room, he 
placed the light uppn it, in such a position that the win- 
dow remained entirely in shadow. Then he ordered the 
baron to sit down, and handing him a paper, said : 

“Now read aloud, without stopping for an instant, 
until you see me cease work.” 

By this method they might reasonably hope to deceive 
the guards outside in the corridor. Some of them, in- 
deed, did come to the door and look in, then went away 
to say to their companions : 

“We have just taken a look at the prisoner. He is 
very pale, and his eyes are glittering feverishly. He 
is reading aloud to divert his mind. Corporal Bavois is 
looking out the window. It must be dull music for him. ’ ’ 

The baron’s voice would also be of advantage in over- 
powering any suspicious sound, should there be one. 
And while Bavois worked, M. d’Escorval read, read, 
read. He had completed the perusal of the entire paper, 
and was about to begin it again, when the old soldier, 
leaving the window, motioned him to stop. 

“Half the task is completed,” he said, in a whisper. 
“The lower bars are cut.” 

“Ah! how can I ever repay you for your devotion?” 
murmured the baron. 

“Hush 1 not a word 1” interrupted Bavois. “If I escape 
with you, I can never return here ; and I shall not know 
where to go, for the regiment, you see, is my only family. 
Ah, well ! if you will give me a home with you, I shall 
be content.” Whereupon he swallowed a big draught 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


17 


of brandy, and set to work with renewed ardor. 
The corporal had cut one of the second row of bars, 
when he was interrupted by M. d’Escorval who, without 
discontinuing his reading had approached and pulled 
Bavois’s long coat to attract his attention. He turned 
quickly. 

“What is it?” 

“I heard a singular noise.” 

“Where?” 

“In the adjoining room where the ropes are.” 

Honest Bavois muttered a terrible oath. “Do they in- 
tend to betray us? I risked my life, and they promised 
me fair play.” He placed his ear against an opening in 
the partition, and listened for a long time. Nothing, not 
the slightest sound. “It must have been some rat that 
you heard,” he said, at last. “Resume your reading.” 

And he began his work again. This was the only in- 
terruption, and a little before four o’clock everything 
was ready. The bars were cut, and the ropes, which had 
been drawn through an opening in the wall, were coiled 
under the window. The decisive moment had come. 
Bavois took the counterpane from the bed,^ fastened it 
over the opening in the door, and filled up the keyhole. 

“Now,” said he, in the same measured tone which he 
would have used in instructing his recruits, “attention, 
sir, and obey the word of command.” 

Then he calmly explained that the escape would con- 
sist of two distinct operations ; the first in gaining the 
narrow platform at the base of the tower ; the second, 
in descending to the foot of the precipitous rock. The 
abbe, who understood this, had brought Martial two 
ropes ; the one to be used in the descent of the precipice 
being considerably longer than the other. 


18 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I will fasten the shortest rope under your arms, mon- 
sieur, and I will let you down to the base of the tower. 
When you have reached it, I will pass you the longer 
rope and the crowbar. Do not miss them. If we find 
ourselves without them on that narrow ledge of rock, we 
shall either be compelled to deliver ourselves up, or throw 
ourselves down the precipice. I shall not be long in 
joining you. Are you ready?” 

M. d’Escorval lifted his arms, the rope was fastened 
securely about him, and he crawled through the window. 

From there, the height seemed immense. Below, in 
the barren fields that surrounded the citadel, eight per- 
sons were waiting, silent, anxious, breathless. They 
were Mme. d’Escorval and Maurice, Marie- Anne, Abbe 
Midon, and the four retired army officers. There was 
no moon ; but the night was very clear, and they could 
see the tower quite plainly. 

Soon after four o’clock sounded they saw a dark ob- 
ject glide slowly down the side of the tower— it was the 
baron. After a little, another form followed very rapidly 
— it was Bavois. 

Half the perilous journey was accomplished. From 
below, they could see the two figures moving about on 
the narrow platform. The corporal and the baron were 
exerting all their strength to fix the crowbar securely in 
a crevice of the rock. 

In a moment or two one of the figures stepped from 
the projecting rock and glided gently down the side of 
the precipice. It could be none other than M. d’Escor- 
val. Transported with happiness, his wife sprang for- 
ward with open arms to receive him. 

Wretched woman! A terrific cry rent the still night 
air. M. d’Escorval was falling from a height of fifty 


monsieur lecoq. 


19 


feot ; he was hurled down to the foot of the rocky preci- 
pice. The rope had parted. 

Had it broken naturally? Maurice, who examined the 
end of it, exclaimed, with horrible imprecations of 
hatred and vengeance, that they had been betrayed — 
that their enemy had arranged to deliver only a dead 
body into their hands — that the rope, in short, had been 
foully tampered with — cut ! 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Cbupin had not taken time to sleep, nor scarcely time 
to drink, since that unfortunate morning when the Duke 
de Sairmeuse ordered aflSxed to the walls of Montaignac 
that decree in which he promised twenty thousand 
francs to the person who should deliver up Lacheneur, 
dead or alive. 

“Twenty thousand francs,*" Chupin muttered, gloom- 
ily ; ‘ “twei sacks with a hundred pistoles in each I Ah ! 
if I could discover Lacheneur ; even if he were dead and 
buried a hundred feet under ground I should gain the 
reward !“ 

The appellation of traitor, which he would receive; 
the shame and condemnation that would fall upon him 
and his, did not make him hesitate for a moment. He 
saw but one thing — the reward— the blood-money. 

Unfortunately, he had nothing whatever to guide him 
in his researches ; no clew, however vague. All that was 
known in Montaignac was that M. Lacheneur ’s horse 
was killed at the Croix d’Arcy. But no one knew 
whether Lacheneur himself had been wounded, or 


20 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


whether he had escaped from the fray uninjured. Had 
he reached the frontier? or had he found an asylum in 
the house of one of his friends? 

Chupin was thus hungering for the price of blood, 
when, on the day of the trial, as he was returning from 
the citadel, after making his deposition, he entered a 
drinking saloon. While there he heard the name of 
Lacheneur uttered in low tones near him. 

Two peasants were emptying a bottle of wine, and one 
of them, an old man, was telling the other that he had 
come to Montaignac to give Mdlle. Lacheneur news of 
lier father. He said that his son-in-law had met the 
chief conspirator in the mountains which separate the 
arrondissement of Montaignac from Savoy. He even 
mentioned the exact place of meeting, which was near 
Saint Pavin-des-Gottes, a tiny village of only a few 
houses. 

Certainly the worthy man did not think he was com- 
mitting a dangerous indiscretion. In his opinion, Lache- 
neur had, ere this, crossed the frontier and was out of 
danger. In this he was mistaken. 

The frontier bordering on Savoy was gnaided by sol- 
diers, who had received orders to allow none of the con- 
spirators to pass. The passage of the frontier, then, 
presented many great difficulties, and even if a mar 
succeeded in effecting it, he might be arrested and im« 
prisoned on the other side, until the formalities of extra- 
dition had been complied with. 

Chupin saw his advantage, and instantly decided on 
his course. He knew that he had not a moment to lose. 
He threw a coin down upon the counter, and without 
waiting for his change rushed back to the citadel and 
asked the -sergeant at the gate for pen and paper. The 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


21 


old rascal generally wrote slowly^ and painfully ; to-day 
it took him but a moment to trace these lines : 

“I know Lacheneur’s retreat, and beg monseigneur to 
order some mounted soldiers to accompany me, in order 
to capture him. Chupin.” 

This note was given to one of the guards, with a re- 
quest to take it to the Duke de Sairmeuse, who was pre- 
siding over the military commission. 

Five minutes later, the soldier reappeared with the 
same note. Upon the margin the duke had written an 
order, placing at Chupin’s disposal a lieutenant and eight 
men chosen from the Montaignac chasseurs, who could 
be relied upon, and who were not suspected (as were the 
other troops) of sympathizing with the rebels. 

Chupin also requested a horse for his own use, and 
this was accorded him. The duke had just received this 
note when, with a triumphant air, he abruptly entered 
the room where Marie- Anne and his son were negotiat- 
ing for the release of Baron d’Escorval. It was because 
he believed in the truth of the rather hazardous assertion 
made by his spy that he exclaimed, upon the threshold : 
“Upon my word ! it must be confessed that this Chupin 
is an incomparable huntsman ! Thanks to him — ” Then 
lie saw Mdlle. Lacheneur and suddenly checked himself. 

Unfortunately, neither Martial nor Marie- Anne were 
in a state of mind to notice this remark and its interrup- 
tion. Had he been questioned, the duke would prob- 
ably have allowed the truth to escape him, and M. Lache- 
neur might have been saved. But Lacheneur was one 
of those unfortunate beings who seem to be pursued by 
an evil destiny which they can never escape. 

Buried beneath his horse, M. Lacheneur had lost con- 


22 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


sciousness. When he 'regained his senses, restored by 
the fresh morning air, the place was silent and deserted. 
Not far from him, he saw two dead bodies which had 
not yet been removed. 

It was a terrible moment, and in the depth of his soul 
he cursed death, which had refused to heed his entreaties, 
ilad he been armed, he would have ended by suicide the 
most cruel mental torture which man was ever forced 
to endure — but he had no weapon. He was obliged to 
accept the chastisement of life. Perhaps, too, the voice 
of honor whispered that it was cowardice to strive to 
escape the responsibility of one’s acts by death. 

At last, he endeavored to draw himself out from be- 
neath the body of his horse. This proved to be no easy 
matter, as his foot was still in the stirrup, and his limbs 
were so badly cramped that he could scarcely move them. 
He finally succeeded in freeing himself, however, and, 
on examination, discovered that he who, it would seem, 
ought to have been killed ten times over, had only one 
hurt — a bayonet wound in the leg, extending from the 
ankle almost to the knee. Such a wound, of course, 
caused him not a little suffering, and he was trying to 
bandage it with his handkerchief, when he lieard the 
sound of approaching footsteps. He had no time for 
reflection ; he sprang into the forest that lies to the left 
of the Croix d’Arcy. 

The troops were returning to Montaignac after pursu- 
ing the rebels for more than three miles. There were 
about two hundred soldiers, and they were bringing 
back, as prisoners, about twenty peasants. 

Hidden by a great oak scarcely fifteen paces from the 
road, Lacheneur recognized several of the prisoners in 
the gray light of dawn. It was only by the merest 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


23 


chance that he escai)ed discovery ; and he fully realized 
how difficult it would be for him to gain the frontier 
without falling into the hands of the detachments of 
soldiery, who were doubtless scouring the country in 
every direction. 

Still he did not despair. The mountains lay only two 
leagues away ; and he firmly believed that he could suc- 
cessfully elude his pursuers as soon as he gained the 
shelter of the hills. He began his journey courageously. 

Alas I he had not realized how exhausted he had be- 
come from the excessive labor and excitement of the 
past few days, and by the loss of blood from his wound, 
which he could not stanch. 

He tore up a pole in one of the vineyards to serve as a 
staff, and dragged himself along, keeping in the shelter 
of the woods as much as possible, and creeping along be- 
side the hedges and in the ditches when he was obliged 
to traverse an open space. • 

To great physical suffering, and to the most cruel 
mental anguish, was now added an agony that momen- 
tarily increased — hunger. He had eaten nothing for 
thirty hours, and he felt terribly weak from lack of 
nourishment. This torture soon became so intolerable 
that he was . billing to brave anything to appease it. 

At last he perceived the roofs of a tiny hamlet. He 
decided to enter it and ask for food. He was on the 
outskirts of the village, when he heard the rolling of a 
drum. Instinctively he hid behind a wall. But it was 
only a town-crier beating his drum to call the people 
together. 

And soon a voice rose so clear and penetrating that 
each word it uttered fell distinctly on Lacheneur’s ears. 
It said : 


24 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“This is to inform you that the authorities of Montaig- 
nac promise to give a reward of twenty thousand francs 
—two thousand pistoles, you understand— to him who 
will deliver up the man known as Lacheneur, dead or 
alive. Dead or alive, you understand. If he is dead, 
the compensation will be the same; twenty thousand 
francs ! It will be paid in gold.” 

With a bound, Lacheneur had risen, wild with despair 
and horror. Though he had believed himself utterly ex- 
hausted, he found superhuman strength to flee. 

A price had been set upon his head. This frightful 
thought awakened in his breast the frenzy that renders 
a hunted wild beast so dangerous. In all the villages 
around him he fancied he could hear the rolling of 
drums, and the voice of the crier proclaiming this in- 
famous edict. Go where he would now, he was a tempt- 
ing bait offered to treason and cupidity. In what human 
creature could he conflde? Under what roof could he 
ask shelter? f 

And even if he were dead, he would still be worth a 
fortune. Though he died from lack of nourishment and 
exhaustion under a bush by the wayside, his emaciated 
body would still be worth twenty thousand francs. 

And the man who found his corpse would not give it 
burial. He would place it on his cart and bear it to 
Montaignac. He would go to the authorities and say : 
“Here is Lacheneur’s body— give me the reward 1” 

How long and by what paths he pursued his flight he 
could not tell. But several hours after, as he was travers- 
ing the wooded hills of Charves, he saw two men, who 
sprang up and fled at his approach. In a terrible voice, 
he called after them: “Eh! you men! do each of you 
desire a thousand pistoles? I am Lacheneur.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


25 


They paused when they recognized him, and Lacheneur 
saw that they were two of his followers. They were 
well-to-do farmers, and it had been very difficult to in- 
duce them to take part in the revolt. 

These men had part of a loaf of bread and a little 
brandy. They gave both to the famished man. They 
sat down beside him on the grass, and while he was eat- 
ing they related their misfortunes. Their connection with 
the conspiracy had been discovered ; their houses were 
full of soldiers, who were hunting for them ; but they 
hoped to reach Italy by the aid of a guide who was wait- 
ing for them at an appointed place. 

Lacheneur extended his hand to them. “Then I am 
saved,” said he. “Weak and wounded as I am, I should 
perish if I were left alone.” 

But the two farmers did not accept the hand he offered. 
“We should leave you,” said the younger man, gloom- 
ily, “for you are the cause of our misfortunes. You 
deceived us. Monsieur Lacheneur.” 

He dared not protest, so just was the reproach. 

“Nonsense! let him come, all the same,” said the 
other, with a peculiar glance at his companion. 

So they walked on, and that same evening, after nine 
hours of traveling on the mountains, they crossed the 
frontier. But this long journey was not made without 
bitter reproaches, and even more bitter recriminations. 

Closely questioned by his companions, Lacheneur, ex- 
hausted both in mind and body, finally admitted the in- 
sincerity of the promises with which he had inflamed the 
zeal of his followers. He acknowledged that he had 
spread the report that Marie Louise and the young king 
of Rome were concealed in Montaignac, and that this 
report was a gross falsehood. He confessed that he had 


26 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


given the signal for the revolt without any chance of 
success, and without n?.eans of action, leaving everything 
to chance. In short, he confessed that nothing was real 
save his hatred, his implacable hatred of the Sairmeuse 
family. 

A dozen times, at least, during this terrible avowal, 
the peasants who accompanied him were on the point of 
hurling him down the precipices upon whose verge they 
were walking; 

“So it was to gratify his own spite,” they thought, 
quivering with rage, “that he sets everybody to fighting 
and killing one another — that he ruins us, and drives ub 
into exile. We will see.” 

Tlie fugitives went to the nearest house after crossing 
the frontier. It was a lonely inn, about a league from 
the little village of Saint- Jean-de-Coche, and was kept 
by a man named Bal stain. They rapped, in spite of the 
lateness of the hour — it was past midnight. They were 
admitted, and they ordered supper. Lacheneur, weak 
from loss of blood, and exhausted by his long tramp, 
declared that he would eat no supper. He threw him- 
self upon a bed in an adjoining room, and was soon 
asleep. 

This was the first time since their meeting with Lache- 
neur that his companions had found an opportunity to 
talk together in private. The same idea had occurred 
to both of them. They believed that by delivering up 
Lacheneur to the authorities they might obtain pardon 
for themselves. 

Neither of these men would have consented to receive 
a single sou of the money promised to the betrayer ; but 
to exchange their life and liberty for the life and liberty 
of Lacheneur did not seem to them a culpable act, under 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


27 


the circumstances. “For did he not deceive us?” they 
said to themselves. 

They decided, at last, that as soon as they had finished 
their supper they would go to Saint-Jean-de-Coche and 
inform the Piedmontese guards. 

But they reckoned without their host. They had 
spoken loud enough to be overheard by Balstain, the 
inn-keeper, who had learned, during the day, of the 
magnificent reward which had been promised to Lache- 
neur’s captor. 

When he heard the name of the guest who was sleep- 
ing quietly under his roof, a thirst for gold seized him. 
He whispered a word to his wife, then escaped through 
the window to run and summon the gendarmes. 

He had been gone half an hour before the peasants left 
the house ; for, to muster up courage for the act they 
were about to commit, they had been obliged to drink 
heavily. They closed the door so violently on going 
out that Lacheneur was awakened by the noise. He 
sprang up, and came out into the adjoining room. The 
wife of the inn-keeper was there alone. 

“Where are my friends?” he asked, anxiously. 
“Where is your husband?” 

Moved by sympathy, the woman tried to falter some 
excuse, but finding none, she threw herself at his feet, 
crying : 

“Fly, monsieur! save yourself — you are betrayed!” 

Lacheneur rushed back into the other room, seeking 
a weapon with which he could defend himself, an issue 
through which he could fiee ! He had thought that they 
might abandon him, but betray him— no, never ! 

“Who has sold me?” he asked, in a strained, unnatural 


voice. 


28 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Your friends— the two men that supped there at that 
table.” 

“Impossible, madame, impossible!” 

He did not suspect the designs and hopes of his former 
comrades ; and he could not, he would not believe them 
capable of ignobly betraying him for gold. 

“But,” pleaded the inn-keeper’s wife, still on her knees 
before him, “they have just started for Saint-Jean-de- 
Coche, where they will denounce you. I heard them say 
that your life would purchase theirs. They have cer- 
tainly gone to summon the gendarmes! Is this not 
enough, or am I obliged to endure the shame of con- 
fessing that my own husband, too, has gone to betray 
you?” 

Lacheneur understood it all now. And this supreme 
misfortune, after all the misery he had endured, broke 
him down completely. Great tears gushed from his 
eyes, and sinking down into a chair, he murmured : 

“Let them come, I am ready for them. No, I will not 
stir from here ! My miserable life is not worth such a 
struggle.” 

But the wife of the traitor rose, and grasping the un- 
fortunate man’s clothing, she shook him, she dragged 
him to the door— she would have carried him had she 
possessed sufficient strength. 

“You shall not remain here,” said she, with extraor- 
dinary vehemence. “Fly! save yourself ! You shall not 
^be taken here ; it will bring misfortune upon our house !” 

Bewildered by these violent adjurations, and urged on 
by the instinct of self-preservation, so powerful in every 
human heart, Lacheneur stepped out upon the thresh- 
hold. The night was very dark, and a chilling fog inten- 
sified the gloom. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


29 


“See, madame,” said the poor fugitive, gently, “how 
can I find my way through these mountains, which I do 
not know, and where there are no* roads — where the 
footpaths are scarcely discernible?’* 

With a quick movement Balstain’s wife pushed Lache- 
neur out, and turning him as one does a blind man, to 
set him on the right track. 

“Walk straight before you,” said she, “always against 
the wind. God will protect you. Farewell !” 

He turned to ask further directions, but she had re- 
entered the house and closed the door. 

Upheld by a feverish excitement, he walked for long 
hours. He soon lost his way, and wandered on through 
the mountains, benumbed with cold, stumbling over 
rocks, sometimes falling. Why he was not precipitated 
to the depths of some chasm it is difiicult to explain. He 
lost all idea of his whereabouts, and the sun was high in 
the heavens when he at last met a human being of whom 
he could inquire his way. It was a little shepherd-boy, 
in pursuit of some stray goats, whom he encountered ; 
but the lad, frightened by the wild and haggard appear- 
ance of the stranger, at first refused to approach. The 
offer of a piece of money induced him to come a little 
nearer. 

“You are on the summit of the mountain, monsieur,” 
said he; “and exactly on the boundary line. Here is 
France; there is Savoy.” 

“And what is the nearest village?” 

“On the Savoyard side, Saint-Jean-de-Coche ; on the 
French side, Saint-Pavin. ” 

So, after all his terrible exertions, Lacheneur was not 
a league from the inn. Appalled by this discovery, he 
remained for a moment undecided which course to pur- 


30 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


sue. What did it matter? Why should the doomed 
hesitate? Do not all roads lead to the abyss into which 
they must sink? He remembered the gendarmes that 
the inn-keeper’s wife had warned him against, and 
slowly and with great difficulty descended the steep 
mountain-side, leading down to France. 

He was near Saint-Pavin, when, before an isolated cot- 
tage, he saw a pretty pleasant-looking young woman 
spinning in the sunshine. He dragged himself toward 
her, and in weak tones begged her hospitality. 

On seeing this man, whose face was ghastly pale, and 
w hose clothing was torn and soiled with dust and blood, 
the woman rose, evidently more surprised than alarmed. 
She looked at him closely, and saw that his age, his 
stature, and his features corresponded with the descrip- 
tions of Lacheneur, which had been scattered thickly 
about the frontier. 

“You are the conspirator they are hunting for, and 
for whom they promise a reward of twenty thousand 
francs,” she said. 

Lacheneur trembled. “Yes, I am Lacheneur,” he re- 
plied, after a moment’s hesitation; “I am Lacheneur. 
Betray me, if you will, but in charity’s name give me a 
morsel of bread and allow me to rest a little !” 

At the words “betray me,” the young woman made a 
gesture of horror and disgust. 

“We betray you, sirl” said she. “Ah! you do not 
know the Antoines! Enter our house, and lie down 
upon the bed while I prepare some refreshment for you. 
When my husband comes, we will see what can be 
done.” 

It was nearly sunset when the master of the house, a 
robust mountaineer, with a frank, open face, returned. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


31 


On beholding the stranger seated at his fireside, he 
turned frightfully pale. 

“Unfortunate woman !“ he whispered to his wife, “do 
you not know that any man who shelters this fugitive 
will be shot and his house leveled to the ground?” 

Lacheneur rose with a shudder. He had not known 
this. He knew the infamous reward which had been 
promised to his betrayer, but he had not known the dan- 
ger his presence brought upon these worthy people. 

“I will go at once, sir,” said he, gently. 

But the peasant placed his large hand kindly upon his 
guest’s shoulder, and forced him to resume his seat. 

“It was not to drive you away that I said what I did,” 
he remarked. “You are at home, and you shall remain 
here until I can find some means of insuring your safety. ” 

The pretty peasant woman flung her arms about her 
husband’s neck, and in tones of the most ardent affec- 
tion, exclaimed : “Ah, you are a noble man, Antoine !” 

He smiled, embraced her tenderly, then, pointing to 
the open door: “Watch!” he said. “I feel it my duty 
to tell you, sir, that it will not be easy to save you,” re- 
sumed the honest peasant. “The promises of reward 
have set all evil-minded people on the alert. They know 
that you are in the neighborhood. A rascally inn-keeper 
has crossed the frontier for the express purpose of betray- 
ing your whereabouts to the French gendarmes.” 

“Balstain!” 

“Yes, Balstain ; and he is hunting for you now. That 
is not all. As I passed through Saint- Pa vin, on my re- 
turn, I saw eight mounted soldiers, guided by a peasant, 
also on horseback. They declared that they knew you 
were concealed in the village, and they were going to 
search every house.” 


I 


32 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


These soldiers were none other than the Montaignac 
chasseurs, placed at Chupin’s disposal by the Duke de 
Sairmeuse. It was, indeed, as Antoine had said. Tlie 
task was certainly not at all to their taste, but they were 
closely watched by the lieutenant in command, who 
hoped to receive some substantial reward if the expedi- 
tion was crowned with success. Antoine, meanwhile, 
continued his exposition of his hopes and fears. 

“Wounded and exhausted as you are,” he was saying 
to Lacheneur, “you will be in no condition to make a 
long march in less than a fortnight. Until then you 
must conceal yourself. Fortunately, I know a safe re- 
treat in the mountain, not far from here. I will take 
your there to-night, with provisions enough to last you 
for a week.” 

A stifled cry from his wife interrupted him. He 
turned, and saw her fall almost fainting against the 
door, her face whiter than her coif, her finger pointing 
to the path that led from Saint-Pavin to their cottage. 

“The soldiers — they are coming !” she gasped. 

Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and the peasant 
sprang to the door to see for themselves. 

The young woman had spoken the truth. The Mon- 
taignac chasseurs were climbing the steep footpath 
slowly, but surely. Chupin walked in advance, urging 
them on with voice, gesture and example. 

An imprudent word from the little’ shepherd-boy whom 
M. Lacheneur had questioned had decided the fugitive’s 
fate. On returning to Saint-Pavin, and hearing that the 
soldiers were searching for the chief conspirator, the 
lad chanced to say: “I met a man, just now, on the 
mountain who asked me where he was ; and I saw him 
go down the footpath leading to Antoine’s cottage. ” And, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


33 


in proof of his words, he proudly displayed the piece of 
silver which Lacheneur had given him. 

- “One more bold stroke and we have our man!” ex- 
claimed Chupin. “Come, comrades!” 

And now the party were not more than two hundred 
feet from the house in which the proscribed man had 
found an asylum. Antoine and his wife looked at each 
other with anguish in their eyes. They saw that their 
visitor was lost. 

“We must save him ! we must save him !” cried the 
woman. 

“Yes, we must save him!” repeated the husband, 
gloomily. “They shall kill me before I betray a man 
in my own house !” 

“If he would hide in the stable behind the bundles of 
straw — ” 

“They would find him! Tliese soldiers are worse 
than tigers, and the wretch who leads them on must 
have the keen scent of a bloodhound.” 

He turned quickly to Lacheneur. ‘ ‘ Come, sir , ” said he, 
“let us leap from the back window and fiee to the moun- 
tains. They will see us, but no matter ! These horsemen 
are always clumsy runners. If you cannot run, I will 
carry you. They will probably fire at us, but they will 
miss us.” 

“And your wife?” asked Lacheneur. 

The honest mountaineer shuddered ; but he said: “She 
will join us.” 

Lacheneur took his friend’s hand and pressed it ten- 
derly. “Ah ! you are noble people,” he exclaimed, “and 
God will reward you for your kindness to a poor fugi- 
tWe. But you have done too much already. I should 
be the basest of men if I consented to uselessly expose 


34 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


you to danger. I can bear this life no longer ; I have no 
wish to escape !” v He drew the sobbing woman to him, 
and kissed her upon the forehead. “I have a daughter, 
young and beautiful like yourself, as generous and proud. 
Poor Marie- Anne I And I have pitilessly sacrificed her 
to my hatred ! I should not complain ; come what may, 
I have deserved it I” 

The sound of approaching footsteps became more and 
more distinct. Lacheneur straightened himself up, and 
seemed to be gathering all his energy for the decisive 
moment. “Remain inside,” he said, imperiously, to 
Antoine and his wife. “I am going out; they must not 
arrest me in your house.” 

As he spoke, he stepped outside the door, with a firm 
tread, a dauntless brow, a calm and assured mien. The 
soldiers were but a few feet from him. 

“Halt !” he exclaimed, in a strong, ringing voice. “It 
is Lacheneur you are seeking, is it not? I am he ! I 
surrender myself.” 

An unbroken stillness reigned. Not a sound, not a 
word replied. The specter of death that hovered above 
his head imparted such an imposing majesty to his per- 
son that the soldiers paused, silent and awed. 

But there was one man who was terrified by this res- 
onant voice, and that was Chupin. Remorse filled his 
cowardly heart, and pale and trembling, he tried to hide 
behind the soldiers. 

Lacheneur walked straight to him. “So it is you who 
have sold my life, Chupin?” he said, scornfully. “You 
have not forgotten, I see plainly, how often Marie- Anne 
has filled your empty larder — and now you take your 
revenge !” 

The miserable wretch seemed crushed. Now that he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


35 


had done this foul deed, he knew what treason really 
was. 

“So be it,” said M. Lacheneur. “You will receive the 
price of my blood ; but it will not bring you good fortune 
— traitor !” 

But Chupin, indignant with himself for his weakness, 
was already trying to shake off the fear that mastered 
him. 

“You have conspired against the king,” he stammered. 
“I have done only my duty in denouncing you.” And 
turning to the soldiers, he said: “As for you, comrades, 
you may rest assured that the Duke de Sairmeuse will 
testify his gratitude for your services.” 

They had bound Lacheneur’s hands, and the party 
were about to descend the mountain, when a man ap- 
peared, bareheaded, covered with perspiration, and pant- 
ing for breath. Twilight was falling, but M. Lacheneur 
recognized Balstain. 

“Ah ! you have him !” he exclaimed, as soon as he was 
within hearing distance, and pointing to the prisoner : 
“The reward belongs to me — I denounced him first on 
the other side of the frontier. The gendarmes at Saint- 
Jean-de-Coche will testify to that. He would have been 
captured last night in my house, but he ran away in my 
absence, and I have been following the bandit for six- 
teen hours.” 

He spoke with extraordinary vehemence and volubil- 
ity, beside himself with fear lest he was about to lose his 
reward, and lest his treason would bring him nothing 
save disgrace and obloquy. 

“If you have any right to the reward, you must prove 
it before the proper authorities,” said the officer in com- 
mand. 


36 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


"If I have any right!” interrupted Balstain; "who 
contests my right, then?” He looked threateningly 
around, and his eyes fell on Chupin. "Is it you?” he 
demanded. "Do you dare to assert that you discovered 
the brigand?” 

"Yes, it was I who discovered bis hiding-place.” 

‘ ‘You lie, impostor ! ’ ’ vociferated the inn-keeper ; "you 
ie !” 

The soldiers did not move. This scene repaid them 
for the disgust they had experienced during the after- 
noon. 

"But,” continued Balstain, "what else could one ex- 
pect from a vile knave like Chupin? Every one knows 
that he has been obliged to flee from France a dozen 
times on account of his crimes. Where did you take 
refuge when you crossed the frontier, Chupin? In my 
house, in the inn kept by honest Balstain. You were 
fed and protected there. How many times have I saved 
you from the gendarmes and from the galleys? More 
times than I can count. And to reward me, you steal 
my property ; you steal this man who was mine — ” 

"He is insane !” said the terrified Chupin, "he is mad !” 

Then the inn-keeper changed his tactics. "At least you 
will be reasonable,” he exclaimed. "Let us see, Chupin, 
what you will do for an old friend? Divide, will you 
not? No, you say no? What will you give me, com- 
rade? A third? Is that too much? A quarter, then — ” 

Chupin felt that all the soldiers were enjoying his ter- 
rible humiliation. They were sneering at him, and only 
an instant before they had avoided coming in contact 
with him with evident horror. Transported with anger, 
he pushed Balstain violently aside, crying : 

"Come — are we going to spend the night here?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


37 


An implacable hatred gleamed in the eye of the Pied- 
montese. He drew his knife from his pocket, and mak- 
ing the sign of the cross in the air. 

“Saint- Jean-de-Coche,” he exclaimed, in a ringing 
voice, “and you. Holy Virgin, hear my vow! May my 
soul burn in hell, if I ever use a knife at my repasts 
until I have plunged this, which I now hold, into the 
heart of the scoundrel who has defrauded me !“ 

Having said this, he disappeared in the woods, and the 
soldiers took up their line of march. 

But Chupin was no longer the same. All his accus- 
tomed impudence had fled. He walked on with bowed 
head, a prey to the most sinister presentiments. He felt 
assured that an oath like that of Balstain’s, and uttered 
by such a man, was equivalent to a death-warrant, or at 
least to a speedy prospect of assassination. This thought 
tormented him so much that he would not allow the de- 
tachment to spend the night at Saint-Pavin, as had been 
agreed upon. He was impatient to leave the neighbor- 
hood. 

After supper Chupin sent for a cart; the prisoner, 
securely bound, was placed in it, and the party started 
for Montaignac. 

The great bell was striking two when Lacheneur was 
brought into the citadel. 

At that very moment M. d’Escorval and Corporal Ba- 
vois were making their preparations for escape. 


CHAPTER XXXH. 

Alone in his cell, Chanlouineau, after Marie-Anne’s 
departure, abandoned himself to the most frightful de- 


38 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


spair. He had just given more than life to the woman 
he loved so fervently. For had he not, in the hope of 
obtaining an interview with her, periled his honor by 
simulating the most ignoble fear? While doing so, he 
thought only of the success of his ruse. But now he 
knew only too well what those who had witnessed his 
apparent weakness would say of him. 

“This Chanlouineau is only a miserable coward, after 
all,” he fancied he could hear them saying among them- 
selves. “We have seen him on his knees, begging for 
mercy, and promising to betray his accomplices.” 

The thought that his memory would be tarnished with 
charges of cowardice and treason drove him nearly mad. 
He actually longed for death, since it would give him 
an opportunity to retrieve his honor. 

“They shall see, then,” he cried, wrathfully, “if I 
turn pale and tremble before the soldiers.” 

He was in this state of mind when the door opened to 
admit the Marquis de Courtornieu, who, after seeing 
Mdlle. Lacheneur leave tlie prison, came to Chanloui- 
neau to ascertain the result of her visit. 

“Well, my good fellow — ” began the marquis, in his 
most condescending manner. 

“Leave!” cried Chanlouineau, in a fury of passion, 
“Leave, or—” 

Without waiting to hear the end of the sentence, the 
marquis made his escape, greatly surprised and not a 
little dismayed by this sudden change. 

“What a dangerous and bloodthirsty rascal!” here- 
marked to the guard. “It would, perhaps, be advisable 
to put him in a strait- jacket. ” 

Ah ! there was no necessity for that. The heroic peas- 
ant had thrown himself upon his straw pallet, oppressed 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


39 


with feverish anxiety. Would Marie- Anne know how 
to make the best use of the weapon which he had placed 
in her hands? If he hoped so, it was because she would 
have as her counselor and guide a man in whose judg- 
ment he had the most implicit confidence — Abbe Midon. 

“Martial will be afraid of the letter,” he said to him- 
self, again and again; “certainly he will be afraid.” 

In this Chanlouineau was entirely mistaken. His dis- 
cernment and intelligence were certainly above his sta- 
tion, but he was not sufficiently acute to read a char- 
acter like that of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse. 

The document which he had written in a moment of 
abandon and blindness was almost without influence in 
determining his course. He pretended to be greatly 
alarmed, in order to frighten his father ; but in reality 
he considered the threat puerile. Marie- Anne would 
have obtained the same assistance from him if she had 
not possessed this letter. 

« 

Other influences had decided him ; the difficulties and 
dangers of the undertaking, the risks to be incurred, the 
prejudices to be braved. To save the life of Baron d’Es- 
corval — an enemy — to wrest him from the executioner 
on the very steps of the scaffold, as it were, seemed to 
him a delightful enterprise. And to assure the happi- 
ness of the woman he adored by saving the life of an 
enemy, even after his suit had been refused, seemed' a 
chivalrous act worthy of him. 

Besides, what an opportunity it afforded for the exer- 
cise of his sang-froid, his diplomatic talent, and the 
finesse upon which he prided himself ! 

It was necessary to make his father his dupe. That 
was an easy task. It was necessary to impose upon the 


40 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


credulity of the Marquis de Courtornieu. This was a 
difficult task, yet he succeeded. 

But poor Chanlouineau could not conceive of such con- 
tradictions, and he was consumed with anxiety. Will- 
ingly would he have consented to be put to the torture 
before receiving his death-blow, if he might have been 
allowed to follow Marie-Anne in her undertakings. What 
was she doing? How could he ascertain? 

A dozen times during the evening he called his guards, 
under every possible pretext, and tried to compel them 
to talk with him. He knew very well that these men 
could be no better informed on the subject than he was 
himself, that he could place no confidence in their re- 
ports— but that made no difference. 

The drums beat for the evening roll-call, then for the 
extinguishment of lights — after that, silence. 

Standing at the window of his cell, Chanlouineau con- 
centrated all his faculties in a superhuman effort of at- 
tention. It seemed to him, if the baron regained his 
liberty, he would be warned of it by some sign. Those 
whom he had saved owed him, he thought, this slight 
token of gratitude. 

A little after two o’clock he heard sounds that made 
him tremble. There was a great bustle in the corridors ; 
guards running to and fro, and calling each other, a rat- 
tling of keys and opening and shutting of doors. 

The passage was illuminated ; he looked out, and by 
the uncertain light of the lanterns, he thought he saw 
Lacheneur, as pale as a ghost, pass the cell, led by some 
soldiers, 

Lacheneur ! Could this be possible? He doubted his 
own eyesight. He thought it must be a vision born of 
the fever burning in his brain. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


41 


Later, he heard a despairing cry. But was it surpris- 
ing that one should hear such a sound in a prison, where 
twenty men condemned to death were suffering the 
agony of that terrible night which precedes the day of 
execution. 

At last, the gray light of early dawn came creeping in 
through the prison bars. Chanlouineau was in despair. 
“The letter was useless !” he murmured. 

Poor, generous peasant ! His heart would have leaped 
for joy could he have cast a glance on the courtyard of 
the citadel. 

More than an hour had passed after the sounding of 
the reveille, when two countrywomen, who were carry- 
ing their butter and eggs to market, presented them- 
selves at the gate of the fortress. They declared that 
while passing through the fields at the base of the pre- 
cipitous cliff upon which the citadel was built they had 
discovered a rope dangling from the side of the rock. A 
rope ! Then one of the condemned prisoners must have 
escaped. The guards hastened to Baron d’Escorval’s 
room — it was empty. The baron had fled, taking with 
him the man who had been left to guard him — Corporal 
Bavois, of the grenadiers. 

The amazement was as intense as the indignation, but 
the fright was still greater. There was not a single offi- 
cer who did not tremble on thinking of his responsibility ; 
not ore who did not see his hopes of advancement blighted 
forever. 

What should they say to the formidable Duke de Sair- 
meuse and to the Marquis de Courtornieu, who, in spite 
of his calm and polished manners, was almost as much 
to be feared. It was necessary to warn them, however, 
and a sergeant was dispatched with the news. 


42 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Soon they made their appearance, accompanied by 
Martial; all frightfully angry. M. de Sairmeuse, espe- 
cially, seemed beside himself. He swore at everybody, 
accused everybody, threatened everybody. 

He began by consigning all the keepers and guards to 
prison ; he even talked of demanding the dismissal of all 
the officers. “As for that miserable Bavois,” he ex- 
claimed — “as for that cowardly deserter, he shall be 
shot as soon as we capture him, and we will capture 
him, you may depend upon it!” 

They had hoped to appease the duke’s wrath a little, 
by informing him of Lacheneur’s arrest ; but he knew 
this already, for Chupin had ventured to awake him in 
the middle of the night to tell him the great news. 

The baron’s escape afforded the duke an opportunity 
to exalt Chupin's merits. “The man who has discovered 
Lacheneur will know how to find this traitor D’Escor- 
val,” he remarked. 

M. de Courtornieu, who was more calm, “took meas- 
ures for the restoration of a great culprit to the hand of 
justice,” as he said. He sent couriers in every direc- 
tion, ordering them to make close inquiries throughout 
the neighborhood. 

His commands were brief, but to the point ; they were 
to watch the frontier, to submit all travelers to a rigor- 
ous examination, to search the house, and to sow the 
description of D’Escorval broadcast through the land. 
But, first of all, he ordered the arrest both of Abbe 
Midon— the Cure of Sairmeuse, and of the son of Baron 
d’Escorval. 

Among the officers present there was one, an old lieu- 
tenant, medaled and decorated, who had been deeply 
wounded by imputations uttered by the Duke de Sair- 


43 


•ySIEUR LECOQ. 

meuse. He stepped forward with a gloomy air and said 
that these measures were doubtless all very well, but 
the most pressing and urgent duty was to institute an 
investigation at once, which, while acquainting ' them 
with the method of escape, would probably reveal the 
accomplices. 

On hearing the word “investigation,” neither the 
Duke de Sairmeuse nor the Marquis de Courtornieu 
could repress a slight shudder. They could not ignore 
the fact that their reputations were at stake, and that 
the merest trifle might disclose the truth. A precaution 
neglected, the most insignificant detail, a word, a gesture, 
might ruin their ambitious hopes forever. They trem- 
bled to think that this officer might be a man of unusual 
shrewdness, who had suspected their complicity, and 
was impatient to verify his presumptions. 

No, the old lieutenant had not the slightest suspicion. 
He had spoken on the impulse of the moment, merely to 
give vent to his displeasure. He was not even keen 
enough to remark the rapid glance interchanged be- 
tween the marquis and the duke. ^ 

Martial noticed this look, however, and with a polite- 
ness too studied not to be ridicule, he addressed the lieu- 
tenant. “Yes, we must institute an investigation ; that 
suggestion is as shrewd as it is opportune,” he remarked. 

The old officer turned away, with a muttered oath, 
“That coxcomb is poking fun at me,” he thought; “and 
he and his father and that prig deserve— but what is one 
to do?” 

In spite of his bold remark. Martial felt that he must 
not incur the slightest risk. To whom must the charge 
of this investigation be intrusted ? To the duke and to 
the marquis, of course, since they were the only persons 


44 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


who would know just how much to conceal, and just 
how much to disclose. 

They began their task immediately, with an empresse- 
ment which could not fail to silence all doubts, in case 
any existed in the minds of their subordinates. 

But who could be suspicious? The success of the plot 
had been all the more certain from the fact that the 
baron’s escape seemed likely to injure the interests of 
tlie very parties who had favored it. 

Martial thought he knew the details of the escape as 
exactly as the fugitives themselves. He had been the 
author, even if they had been the actors, of the drama 
of the preceding night. He was soon obliged to admit 
that he was mistaken in this opinion. 

The investigation revealed facts which seemed incom- 
prehensible to him. It was evident that the Baron d’Es- 
corval and Corporal Bavois had been compelled to ac- 
complish two successive descents. To do this, the 
prisoners had realized (since they had succeeded) the 
necessity of having two ropes. Martial had provided 
them; the prisoners must have used them. And yet 
only one rope ould be found— the one which the peasant 
woman had perceived hanging from the rocky platform, ‘ 
where it was made fast to an iron crowbar. From the 
window to the platform there was no rope. 

“This is most extraordinary !” murmured Martial, 
thoughtfully. 

“Very strange!” approved M. de Courtornieu. 

“How the devil could they have reached the base of 
he tower?” 

“That is what I cannot understand.” 

But Martial found another cause for surprise. On ex- 
amining the rope that remained— the one which had 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


45 


been used in making the second descent — he discovered 
that it was not a single piece. Two pieces had been 
[knotted together. The longest piece had evidently been 
too short. 

How did this happen? Could the duke have made a 
mistake in the height of the cliff? or had the abbe meas- 
ured the rope incorrectly ? But Martial had also measured 
it with his eye, and it had seemed to him that the rope 
was much longer, fully a third longer, than it now ap- 
peared. 

“There must have been some accident,” he remarked, 
to his father and to the marquis ; “but what?” 

“Well, what does it matter?” replied the marquis, 
“you have the compromising letter, have you not?” 

But Martial’s was one of those minds that never rest 
when confronted by an unsolved problem. He insisted 
i upon going to inspect the rocks at the foot of the preci- 
: pice. There they discovered large spots of blood. 

' “One of the fugitives must have fallen,” said Martial, 
quickly, “and he was dangerously wounded !” 

! “Upon my word!” exclaimed the Duke de Sairmeuse, 

I “if Baron d’Escorval has broken his neck, I shall be de- 
' lighted!” 

^ Martial’s face turned crimson, and he looked search- 
^ ingly at his father. 

“I suppose, monsieur, that you do not mean one word 
[of what you are saying,” Martial said, coldly. “We 
I pledged ourselves, upon the honor of our name, to save 
[Baron d’Escorval. If he has been killed it will be a great 
[misfortune for us, monsieur, a great misfortune.” 

When his son addressed him in this haughty and freez- 
*ing tone, the duke never knew how to reply. He was 
indignant, but his son’s was the stronger nature. 


46 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Nonsense!” exclaimed M. de Courtornieu; “if the 
rascal had merely been wounded we should have known 
it.” 

Such was the opinion of Chupin, who had been sent for 
by the duke, and who had just made his appearance. But 
the old scoundrel, who was usually so loquacious and so 
officious, replied briefly; and, strange to say, did not 
offer his services. Of his imperturbable assurance, of 
his wonted impudence, of his obsequious and cunning 
smile absolutely nothing remained. His restless eye, 
the contraction of his features, his gloomy manner, and 
the occasional shudder which he could not repress, all 
betrayed his secret perturbation. So marked was the 
change that even the Duke de Sairmeuse observed it. 

“What calamity has happened to you. Master Chupin?” 
he inquired. 

“This has happened,” he responded, sullenly; “when 
I was coming here the children of the town threw mud 
and stones at me, and ran after me, shouting : “Traitor ! 
traitor!” He clinched his fists; he seemed to be medi- 
tating vengeance, and he added: “The people of Mon- 
4aignac are pleased. They know that the baron has 
escaped, and they are rejoicing.” 

Alas ! this joy was destined to be of short duration, 
for this was the day appointed for the execution of the 
conspirators. It was Wednesday. 

At noon the gates of the citadel were closed, and the 
gloom was profound and universal, when the heavy roll- 
ing of drums announced the preparations for the fright- 
ful holocaust. Consternation and fear spread through 
the town ; the silence of death made itself felt on every 
side ; the streets were deserted, and the doors and shut- 
ters of every house were closed. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


47 


At last, as three o’clock sounded, the gates of the fort- 
ress were opened to give passage to fourteen doomed men, 
each accompanied by a priest. 

Fourteen I for, seized by remorse or fright at the last 
moment, M. de Courtomieu and the Duke de Sairmeuse 
had granted a reprieve to six of the prisoners, and at that 
very hour a courier was hastening toward Paris with 
six petitions for pardon signed by the Military Commis- 
sion. 

Chanlouineau was not among those for whom royal 
clemency had been solicited. When he left his ceU, 
without knowing whether or not his letter had availed, 
he counted the condemned with poignant anxiety. His 
eyes betrayed such an agony of anguish that the priest 
who accompanied him leaned toward him and whis- 
pered : “For whom are you looking, my son?” 

“For Baron d’Escorval.” 

“He escaped last night.” 

“Ah! now I shall die content I” exclaimed the heroic 
peasant. 

He died as he had sworn he would die, without even 
changing color — calm and proud, the name of Marie- 
Anne upon his lips. 


CHAPTER XXXHI. 

Ah, well ! there was one woman, a fair young girl, 
whose heart had not been touched by the sorrowful 
scenes of which Montaignac had been the theater. 
Mdlle. Blanche de Courtomieu smiled as brightly as 
ever in the midst of a stricken people ; and surrounded 
by mourners, her lovely eyes remained dry. The daugh- 


48 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ter of a man who, for a week, exercised the power of a 
dictator, she did not lift her finger to save a single one 
of the condemned prisoners from the executioner. They 
had stopped her carriage on the public road. This was 
a crime which Mdlle. de Courtornieu could never for- 
give. She also knew that she owed it to Marie- Anne’s 
intercession that she had not been held prisoner. This 
she could never forget. So it was with the bitterest re- 
sentment that, on the morning following her arrival in 
Montaignac, she recounted what she styled her “humilia- 
tions” to her father — i.e.^ the inconceivable arrogance of 
that Lacheneur girl, and the frightful brutality of which 
the peasants had been guilty. And when the Marquis 
de Courtornieu asked if she would consent to testify 
against Baron d’Escorval, she coldly replied : 

“I think that such is my duty, and I shall fulfill it, 
however painful it may be. ’ ’ 

She knew perfectly well that her deposition would be 
the baron’s death-warrant ; but she persisted in her re- 
solve, veiling her hatred and her insensibility under the 
name of virtue. 

But we must do her the justice to admit that her testi- 
mony was sincere. She really believed that it was Baron 
d’Escorval who was with the rebels and whose opinion 
Chanlouineau had asked. This error on the part of 
Mdlle. Blanche rose from the custom of designating 
Maurice by his Christian name, which prevailed in the 
neighborhood. In speaking of him every one said, “Mon- 
sieur Maurice.” When they said “Monsieur d’Escorval,” 
they referred to the baron. 

After this crushing evidence against the accused had 
been written and signed in her fine and aristocratic 
handwritiug^ Mdlle. de Courtornieu bore herself with 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


49 


partly real and partly affected indifference. She would 
not, on any account, have had people suppose that any- 
thing relating to these plebeians — these low peasants— 
could possibly disturb her proud serenity. She would 
not so much as ask a single question on the subject. 

But this superb indifference was, in a great measure, 
assumed. In her inmost soul she was blessing this con- 
spiracy which had caused so many tears and so much 
blood to flow. Had it not removed her rival from her 
path? 

“Now,” she thought, “the marquis will return to me, 
and I will make him forget the bold creature who has 
bewitched him !” 

Chimeras ! The charm had vanished which had once 
caused the love of Martial de Sairmeuse to oscillate be- 
tween Mdlle. de Courtornieu and the daughter of Lache- 
neur. 

Captivated at first by the charms of Mdlle. Blanche, 
he soon discovered the calculating ambition and the utter 
worldliness concealed beneath such seeming simplicity 
and candor. Nor was he long in discerning her intense 
vanity, her lack of principle, and her unbounded selfish- 
ness ; and, comparing her with the noble and generous 
Marie- Anne, his admiration was changed into indiffer° 
ence, or rather repugnance. 

He did return to her, however, or at least he seemed 
to return to her, actuated, perhaps, by that inexplicable 
sentiment that impels us sometimes to do that which is 
most distasteful to us, and by a feeling of discourage- 
ment and despair, knowing that Marie- Anne was now 
lost to him forever. 

He also said to himself that a pledge had been inter- 
changed between the duke and the Marquis de Courtor- 


50 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


nieu ; that he, too, had given his word, and that Mdlle. 
Blanche was his betrothed. 

Was it worth while to break this engagement? Would 
he not be compelled to marry some day? Why not ful- 
fill the pledge that had been made? He was as willing 
to marry Mdlle. de Courtornieu as any one else, since he 
was sure that the only woman whom he had ever truly 
loved — the only woman whom he ever could love — was 
never to be his. 

Master of himself when near her, and sure that he 
would ever remain the same, it was easy to play the 
part of lover with that perfection and that charm which 
— sad as it is to say it — the real passion seldom or never 
attains. He was assisted by his self-love, and also by 
that instinct of duplicity which leads a man to contradict 
his thoughts by his acts. 

But while he seemed to be occupied only with thoughts 
of his approaching marriage, his mind was full of in- 
tense anxiety concerning Baron d’Escorval. 

What had become of the baron and of Bavois, after 
their escape? What had become of those who were 
awaiting them on the rocks — for Martial knew all their 
plans— Mme. d’Escorval and Marie- Anne, the abbe and 
Maurice, and the four officers? 

There were, then, ten persons in all who had disap- 
peared. And Martial asked himself, again and again, 
how it could be possible for so many individuals to mys- 
teriously disappear, leaving no trace behind them. 

“It unquestionably denotes a superior ability, “thought 
Martial. “I recognize the hand of the priest.” 

It was, indeed, remarkable, since the search ordered by 
the Duke de Sairmeuse and the marquis had been pur- 
sued with feverish activity, greatly to the terror of those 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


51 


who had instituted it. Still, what could they do? They 
had imprudently excited the zeal of their subordinates, 
and now they were unable to moderate it. But, fortu- 
nately, all efforts to discover the fugitives had proved 
unavailing. 

One witness testified, however, that on the morning 
of the escape, he met, just before daybreak, a party of 
about a dozen persons, men and women, who seemed to 
be carrying a dead body. 

This circumstance, taken in connection with the broken 
rope and the blood-stains, made Martial tremble. 

He had also been strongly impressed by another cir- 
cumstance, which was revealed as the investigation pro- 
gressed. 

All the soldiers who were on guard that eventful night 
were interrogated. One of them testified as follows : 

“I was on guard in the corridor communicating with 
the prisoi\er’s apartment in the tower, when at about 
half-past two o’clock, after Lacheneur had been placed 
in his cell, I saw an officer approaching me. I chal- 
lenged him ; he gave me the countersign, and, natural- 
ly, I allowed him to pass. He went down the corridor, 
and entered the room adjoining that in which Monsieur 
d’Escorval was confined. He remained there about five 
minutes.” 

“Did you recognize this officer?” Martial eagerly in- 
quired. 

And the soldier answered: “No. He wore a large 
cloak, the collar of which was turned up so high that 
it covered his face to the very eyes.” 

Who could this mysterious officer have been. ^ What 
was he doing in the room where the ropes had been de- 
posited? 


52 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Martial racked his brain to discover an answer to these 
questions. The Marquis de Courtomieu himself seemed 
much disturbed. 

“How could you be ignorant that there were many 
sympathizers with this movement in the garrison?” he 
said, angrily. “You might have known that this visitor, 
who concealed his face so carefully, was an accomplice 
who had been warned by Bavois, and who came to see if 
he needed a helping hand.” 

This was a plausible explanation, still it did not satisfy 
Martial. 

“It is very strange,” he thought, “that Monsieur d’Es- 
corval has not even deigned to let me know he is in safe- 
ty. The service which I have rendered him deserves that 
acknowledgment, at least. ” 

Such was his disquietude that he resolved to apply to 
Chupin, even though this traitor inspired him with ex- 
treme repugnance. 

But it was no longer easy to obtain the services of the 
old spy. Since he had received the price of Lacheneur’s 
blood — the twenty thousand francs which had so fasci- 
nated him — Chupin had deserted the house of the Duke 
de Sairmeuse. 

He had taken up his quarters in a small inn on the out- 
skirts of the town ; and he spent his days alone in a large 
room on the second floor. 

At night he barricaded the doors, and drank, drank, 
drank ; and until daybreak they could hear him cursing 
and singing, or stniggling against imaginary enemies. 

Still, he dared not disobey the order brought by a sol- 
dier, summoning him to the Hotel de Sairmeuse at once. 

“I wish to discover what has become of Baron d’Es- 
corval,” said Martial. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


53 


Chupin trembled, he who had formerly been bronze, 
and a fleeting color dyed his cheeks. 

“The Montaignac police are at your disposal,” he an- 
swered, sulkily. ‘ ‘They, perhaps, can satisfy the curi- 
osity of Monsieur le Marquis. I do not belong to the 
police.” 

Was he in earnest, or was he endeavoring to augment 
the value of his services by refusing them? Martial in- 
clined to the latter opinion. 

“You shall have no reason to complain of my generos- 
ity,” said he. “I will pay you well.” 

But on hearing this word “pay,” which would have 
made his eyes gleam with delight a week before, Chupin 
flew into a furious passion. 

“So it was to tempt me again that you summoned me 
here!” he exclaimed. “You would do better to leave 
me quietly at my inn.” 

“What do you mean, fool?” 

But Chupin did not even hear this interruption, and, 
with increasing fury, he continued : 

“They told me that, by betraying Lacheneur, I should 
be doing my duty and serving the king. I betrayed him, 
and now I am treated as if I had committed the worst of 
crimes. Formerly, when I lived by stealing and poach- 
ing, they despised me, perhaps ; but they did not shun 
me as they did the pestilence. They called me rascal, 
robber, and the like ; but they would drink with me all 
the same. To-day I have twenty thousand francs, and 
I am treated as if I were a venomous beast. If I approach 
a man, he draws back ; if I enter a room, those who are 
there leave it.” 

The recollection of the insults he had received made 
him more and more frantic with rage. 


54 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Was the act I committed so ignoble and abominable?” 
he pursued. * ‘ Then why did your f athe r propose it ? The 
shame should fall on him. He should not have tempted 
a poor man with wealth like that. If, on the contrary, 
I have done well, let them make laws to protect me.” 

Martial comprehended the necessity of reassuring this, 
troubled mind. 

“Chupin, my boy,” said he, “I do not ask you to dis- 
cover M. d’Escorval in order to denounce him ; far from 
it — 1 only desire you to ascertain if any one at Saint- 
Pavin, or at Saint-Jean-de-Coche, knows of his having 
crossed the frontier.” 

On hearing the name Saint-Jean-de-Coche, Chupin’s 
face blanched. 

“Do you wish me to be murdered?” he exclaimed, re- 
membering Balstain and his vow. “I would have you 
know that 1 value my life, now that I am rich.” 

And, seized with a sort of panic, he fled precipitately. 
Martial was stupefled with astonishment. 

“One might really suppose that the wretch was sorry 
for what he had done,” he thought. 

If that was really the case, Chupin was not alone. 

M. de Courtornieu and the Duke de Sairmeuse were 
secretly blaming themselsres for the exaggerations in 
their flrst reports, and the manner in which they had 
magnified the proportions of the rebellion. They accused 
each other of undue haste, of neglect of the proper forms 
of procedure, and the injustice of the verdict rendered. 

Each endeavored to make the other responsible for the 
blood which had been spilled ; one tried to cast the public 
odium upon the other. Meanwhile, they were both doing 
their best to obtain a pardon for the six prisoners who 
had been reprieved. They did not succeed. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


55 


One night a courier arrived at Montaignac, bearing 
the following laconic dispatch : 

“The twenty-one convicted prisoners must be exe- 
cuted.” 

That is to say, the Duke de Richelieu, and the council 
of ministers, headed by M. Decazes, the minister of 
police, had decided that the petitions for clemency must 
be refused. 

This dispatch was a terrible blow to the Duke de Sair- 
meuse and M. de Courtornieu. They knew, better than 
any one else, how little these poor men, whose lives they 
had tried, too late, to save, deserved death. They knew 
it would soon be publicly proven that two of the six men 
had taken no part whatever in the conspiracy. 

What was to be done? 

Martial desired his father to resign his authority ; but 
the duke had not courage to do it. 

M. de Courtornieu encouraged him. He admitted that 
all this was very unfortunate, but declared, since the 
wine had been drawn, that it was necessary to drink it, 
and that one could not draw back now without causing 
a terrible scandal. 

So, the next day the dismal rolling of drums was again 
heard, and the six doomed men, two of whom were 
known to be. innocent, were led outside the walls of the 
citadel and shot, on the same spot where, only a week 
before, fourteen of their comrades had fallen. 

And the prime mover in the conspiracy had not yet 
been tried. 

Confined in the cell next to that which Chanlouineau 
had occupied, Lacheneur had fallen into a state of 
gloomy despondency, which lasted during his whole 


56 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


term of imprisonment. He was terribly broken, both 
in body and in mind. 

Once only did the blood mount to his pallid cheek, and 
that was on the morning when the Duke de Sairmeuse 
entered the cell to interrogate him. 

“It was you who drove me to do what I did,” he said. 
“God sees us, and judges us !” 

Unhappy man ! his faults had been great; his chastise- 
ment was terrible. 

He had sacrificed his children on the altar of his 
wounded pride ; he had not even the consolation of press- 
ing them to his heart and of asking their forgiveness be- 
fore he died. 

Alone in his cell, he could not distract his mind from 
thoughts of his son and of his daughter ; but such was 
the terrible situation in which he had placed himself 
that he dared not ask what had become of them. 

Through a compassionate keeper, he learned that noth- 
ing had been heard of Jean, and that it was supposed 
Marie- Anne had gone to some foreign country with the 
D’Escorval family. 

When summoned before the court for trial, Lacheneur 
was calm and dignified in manner. He attempted no 
defense, but responded with perfect frankness. He took 
all the blame upon himself, and would not give the 
name of one of his accomplices. 

Condemned to be beheaded, he was executed on the 
following day. In spite of the rain, he desired to walk 
to the place of execution. When he reached the scaffold, 
he ascended the steps with a firm tread, and, of his own 
accord, placed his head upon the block. A few seconds 
later, the rebellion of the fourth of March counted its 
twenty-first victim. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


. 57 


And that same evening the people everywhere were 
talking of the magnificent rewards which were to be be- 
stowed upon the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis 
de Courtornieu ; and it was also asserted that the nup- * 
tials of the children of these great houses were to take 
place before the close of the week. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

That Martial de Sairmeuse was to marry Mdlle. 
Blanche de Courtornieu did not surprise the inhabitants 
of Montaignac in the least. 

But spreading such a report, with Lacheneur’s execu- 
tion fresh in the minds of every one, could not fail to 
bring odium upon these men who had held absolute 
power, and who had exercised it so mercilessly. 

Heaven knows that M. de Courtornieu and the Duke de 
Sairmeuse were now doing their best to make the people 
of Montaignac forget the atrocious cruelty of which 
they bad been guilty during their dictatorship. 

Of the hundred or more who were confined in the 
citadel, only 'eighteen or twenty were tried, and they 
received only some very slight punishment ; the others 
were released. 

Major Carini, the leader of the conspirators in Mon- 
taignac, who had expected to lose his head, heard him- 
self, with astonishment, sentenced to two years’ im- 
prisonment. 

But there are crimes which nothing can efface or ex- 
✓ 

tenuate. Public opinion attributed this sudden clemency 
on the part of the duke and the marquis to fear. 


58 • 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


People execrated them for their cruelty, and despised 
them for their apparent cowardice. 

They were ignorant of this, however, and hastened 
forward the preparations for the nuptials of their chil- 
dren, without suspecting that the marriage was consid- 
ered a shameless defiance of public sentiment on their 
part. 

The seventeenth of April was the day which had been 
appointed for the bride 1, and the wedding-feast was to 
be held at the Chateau de Sairmeuse, which, at great ex- 
pense, had been transformed into a fairy palace for the 
occasion. 

It was in the church of the little village of Sairmeuse, 
on the loveliest of spring days, that this marriage cere- 
mony was performed by the cure who had taken the 
place of poor Abbe Midon. 

At the close of the address to the newly wedded pair, 
the priest uttered these words, which he believed pro- 
phetic : “You will be, you must be happy I” 

Who would not have believed, as he did? Where 
could two young people be found more richly dowered 
with all the attributes likely to produce happiness— t.e., 
youth, rank, health and riches? 

But though an intense joy sparkled in the eyes of the 
new Marquise de Sairmeuse, there were those among the 
guests who observed the bridegroom’s preoccupation. 
One might have supposed that he was making an effort 
to drive away some gloomy thought. 

At the moment when his young wife hung upon his 
arm, proud and radiant, a vision of Marie- Anne rose 
before him, more life-like, more potent than ever. 

What had become of her that she had not been seen at 
the time of her father’s execution? Courageous as he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


59 


knew her to be, if she had made no attempt to see her 
father, it must have been because she was ignorant of 
his approaching doom. 

“Ah I if she had but loved him,” Martial thought, 
“what happiness would have been his. But now he was 
bound for life to a woman whom he did not love.” 

At dinner, however, he succeeded in shaking off the 
sadness that oppressed him, and when the guests rose to 
repair to the drawing-rooms, he had almost forgotten his 
dark forebodings. 

He was rising in his turn, when a servant approached 
him with a mysterious air. 

“Some one desires to see the marquis,” whispered the 
valet. 

“Who?” 

“A young peasant who will not give his name.” 

“On one’s wedding-day, one must grant an audience 
to everybody,” said Martial. And gay and smiling, he 
descended the staircase. 

In the vestibule, lined with rare and fragrant plants, 
stood a young man. He was very pale, and his eyes 
glittered with feverish brilliancy. On recognizing him 
Martial could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. 

“Jean Lacheneur !” he exclaimed ; “imprudent man !” 

The young man stepped forward. 

“You believed that you were rid of me,” he said, bit- 
terly. “Instead, I return, from afar. You can have 
your people arrest me, if you choose.” 

Martial’s face crimsoned at the insult ; but he retained 
his composue. 

“What do you desire?” he asked, coldly. 

Jean drew from his pocket a folded letter. “I am to 
give you this on behalf of Maurice d’Escorval.” 


60 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


With an eager hand, Martial broke the seal. He 
glanced over the letter, turned as pale as death, st ag 
gered, and said only one word. 

“Infamous!'’ 

“What must I say to Maurice ?“ insisted Jean. ‘ ‘What 
do you intend to do?” 

With a terrible effort, Martial had conquered his 
weakness. He seemed to deliberate for ten seconds, 
then seizing Jean’s arm, he dragged him up the stair- 
case, saying : “Come — you shall see.” 

Martial’s countenance had changed so much during 
the three minutes he had been absent that there was an 
exclamation of terror when he reappeared, holding an 
open letter in one hand and leading with the other a 
young peasant whom no one recognized. 

“Where is my father?” he demanded, in a husky 
voice; “where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?” 

The duke and the marquis were with Mme. Blanche 
in the little salon at the end of the main hall. Martial 
hastened there, followed by a crowd of wondering 
guests, who, foreseeing a stormy scene, were deter- 
mined not to lose a syllable. He walked directly to M. 
de Courtornieu, who was standing by the fire-place, and 
handing him the letter: “Read!” said he, in a terrible 
voice. 

M. de Courtornieu obeyed. He became livid; the 
paper trembled in his hands ; his eyes fell, and he was 
obliged to lean against the marble mantel for support. 

“I do not understand,” he stammered; “no, I do not 
understand.” 

The duke and Mme. Blanche both sprang forward. 
“What is it?” they asked, in a breath; “what has hap- 
pened?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


61 


With a rapid movement, Martial tore the paper from 
the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu, and addressing 
his father: “Listen to this letter!” he said, imperiously. 

Three hundred people were assembled there, but the 
silence was so* profound that the voice of the young 
marquis penetrated to the furthest extremity of the hall 
as he read : 

“Monsieur le Marquis— In exchange for a dozen 
lines that threatened you with ruin, you promised us, 
upon the honor of your name, the life of Baron d’Escor- 
val. 

“You did, indeed, bring the ropes by which he was to 
make his escape, but they had been previously cut, and 
my father was precipitated to the rocks below. 

“You have forfeited your honor, monsieur. You have 
soiled your name with ineffaceable opprobrium. While 
so much as a drop of blood remains in my veins, I will 
leave no means untried to punish you for your cow- 
ardice and vile treason. 

“By killing me you would, it is true, escape the chas- 
tisement I am reserving for you. Consent to fight with 
me. Shall I await you to-morrow in the Reche? At 
what hour? With what weapons? 

“If you are the vilest of men, you can appoint a ren- 
dezvous, and then send your gendarmes to arrest me. 
That would be an act worthy of you. 

“Maurice d’Escorval.” 

The duke was in despair. He saw the secret of the 
baron’s fiight made public— his political prospects ruined. 

“Hush !” he said hurriedly, and in alow voice ; “hush, 
wretched man, you will ruin us !” 

But Martial seemed not even to hear him. When he 
had finished his reading: “Now, what do you think?” 
he demanded, looking the Marquis de Courtornieu full in 
the face. 


62 


MONSIEUR .LECOQ. 


“I am still unable to comprehend,” said the old noble- 
man, coldly. 

Martial lifted his hand ; every one believed that he was 
about to strike the man who had 'been his father-in-law 
only a few hours. 

“Very well! i comprehend !” he exclaimed. “I know 
now who that officer w^as wffio entered the room in which 
I had deposited the ropes — and I know’- what took him 
there.” 

He crumpled the letter between his hands and threw 
it in M. de Courtornieu’s face, saying: 

“Here is your reward — coward !” 

Overwhelmed by this denouement, the marquis sank , 
into an arm-chair, and Martial, still holding Jean Lache- 
neur by the arm, was leaving the room, when his young 
wife, wild with despair, tried to detain him. 

‘‘You shall not go!” she exclaimed, intensely exas- 
perated; ‘‘you shall not! Where are you going? To 
rejoin the sister of this man, whom I now recognize?” 

Beside himself. Martial pushed his wife roughly aside. 

‘‘Wretch !” said he, ‘‘how dare you insult the noblest 
and purest of women? Ah, well — yes— I am going to 
find Marie- Anne. Farewell!” And he passed on. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

The ledge of rock upon which Baron d’Escorval and A 
Corporal Bavois rested in their descent from the tower j, 
was very narrow. In the widest place it did not meas- Ij, 
ure more than a yard and a half, and its surface was un-^^ 
even, cut by innumerable fissures and crevices, and 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


63 


sloped suddenly at the edge. To stand there in the day- 
time, with the wall of the tower behind one, and the 
precipice at one’s feet, would have been considered very 
imprudent. 

Of course, the task of lowering a man from this ledge, 
at dead of night, was perilous in the extreme. Before 
allowing the baron to descend, honest Bavois took every 
possible precaution to save himself from being dragged 
over the verge of the precipice by the weight he would 
be obliged to sustain. He placed his crowbar firmly in 
a crevice of the rock, then bracing his feet against the 
bar, he seated himself firmly, throwing his shoulders 
well back ; and it was only when he was sure of his 
position that he said to the baron : “I am here, and firm- 
ly fixed, comrade ; now let yourself down. ” 

The sudden parting of the rope hurled the brave cor- 
poral rudely against the tower wall, then he was thrown 
forward by the rebound. 

His unalterable sang-froid was all that saved him. For 
more than a minute he hung suspended over the abyss 
into which the baron had just fallen, and his hands 
clutched at the empty air. A hasty movement, and he 
would have fallen. 

But he possessed a marvelous power of will, which 
prevented him from attempting any violent effort. 

I Prudently, but with determined energy, he screwed his 
feet and^his knees into the crevices of the rock, feeling 
with his hands for some point of support, and gradually 
sinking to one side, he finally succeeded in dragging him- 
self from the verge of the precipice. It was time, for a 
cramp seized him with such violence that he was obliged 
to sit down and rest for a moment. 

That the baron had been killed by his fall, Bavois did 


64 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


not doubt for an instant. But this catastrophe did not 
produce much effect upon the old soldier, who had seen 
so many comrades fall by his side on the field of battle. 
What did amaze him was the breaking of the rope — a 
rope so large that one would have supposed it capable 
of sustaining the weight of ten men like the baron. 

As he could not, by reason of the darkness, see the 
ruptured place, Bavois felt it with his finger; and, to 
his inexpressible astonishment, he found it smooth. No 
filaments, no rough bits of hemp, as usual after a break : 
the surface was perfectly even. The corporal compre- 
hended what Maurice had comprehended below. 

“The scoundrels have cut the rope!” he exclaimed, 
with a frightful oath. And a recollection of what had 
happened three or four hours previous arose in his mind. 
“This,” he thought, “explains the noise which the poor 
baron heard in the next room I And I said to him : ‘Non- 
sense ! it is a rat ! ’ ” 

Them he thought of a very simple method of verifying 
his conjectures. He passed the cord about the crowbar 
and pulled it with all his strength. It parted in three 
places. This discovery appalled him. 

A part of the rope had fallen with the unfortunate 
baron, and it was evident that the remaining fragments 
tied together would not be long enough to reach to the 
base of the rock. From this isolated ledge it was im- 
possible to reach the ground upon which the citadel was 
built. 

“You are in a fine fix, corporal,” he growled. 

Honest Bavois looked the situation full in the face, 
and saw that it was desperate. 

“Well, corporal, your jig is up I” he murmured. “At 
daybreak they will find that the baron’s cell is empty. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


65 


They will poke their heads out of the window, and they 
will see you here, like a stone saint upon his pedestal. 
Naturally, you will be captured, tried, condemned; and 
you will be led out to take your turn in the ditches. 
Ready ! Aim ! Fire ! And that will be the end of your 
story.” 

He stopped short. A vague idea had entered his mind, 
which he felt might possibly be his salvation. It came 
to him in touching the rope which he had used in his 
descent from the prison to the ledge, and which, firmly 
attached to the bars, hung down the side of the tower. 

“If you had that rope which hangs there useless, cor- 
poral, you could add it to these fragments, and then it 
would be long enough to carry you to the foot of the 
rock. But how shall I obtain it? It is certainly impos- 
sible to go back after it I and how can I pull it down 
when it is so securely fastened to the bars? 

He sought a way, found it, and pursued it, talking 
to himself all the while as if there were two corporals ; 
one prompt to conceive, the other, a trifle stupid, to 
whom it was necessary to explain everything in detail. 

“Attention, corporal,” said he. “You are going to 
knot these five pieces of rope together and attach them 
to your waist ; then you are going to climb up to that 
window, hand over hand. Not an easy matter ! A car- 
peted staircase is preferable to that rope dangling there. 
But no matter, you are not finical, corporal ! j,So you 
climb it, and here you are in the cell again. What are 
you going to do? A mere nothing. You are unfasten- 
ing the cord attached to the bars ; you will tie it to this, 
and that will give you eighty feet of good strong rope. 
Then you will pass the rope about one of the bars that 
remain intact; the rope will thus be doubled; then you 


66 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


let yourself down again, and when you are here, you 
have only to untie one of the knots, and the rope is at 
your service. Do you understand, corporal?” 

The corporal did understand so well that in less than 
twenty minutes he was back again upon the narrow 
shelf of rock, the difficult and dangerous operation which 
he had planned accomplished. Not without a terrible 
effort ; not without torn and bleeding hands and knees. 

But he had succeeded in obtaining the rope, and now 
he was certain that he could make his escape from his 
dangerous position. He laughed gleefully, or rather 
with that chuckle which was habitual to him. Anxiety, 
then joy, had made him forget M. d’Escorval. At the 
thought of him, he was smitten with remorse. 

“Poor man !” he murmured. “I shall succeed in sav- 
ing my miserable life, for which no one cares, but I was 
unable to save him. Undoubtedly, by this time his 
friends have carried him away.” As he uttered these 
words he was leaning over the abyss. He doubted the 
evidence of his own senses when he saw a faint light 
moving here and there in the deptlis below. 

What had happened? For somethirfg very extraor- 
dinary must have happened to induce intelligent men 
like the baron’s friends to display this light which, if 
observed from the citadel, would betray their presence 
and ruin them. 

But Corporal Bavois’s moments were too precious to 
be wasted in idle conjectures. “Better go down on the 
double-quick,” he said aloud, as if to spur on his cour- 
age. “Come, my friend, spit on your hands and be off !” 

As he spoke, the old soldier threw himself flat on his 
belly and crawled slowly backward to the verge of the 
precipice. The spirit was strong, but the flesh shud- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


67 


dered. To march upon a battery had always been a 
mere pastime to the worthy corporal; but to face an 
unknown peril, to suspend one^s life upon a cord; was a 
different matter. Great drops of perspiration, caused 
by the horror of his situation, stood out upon his brow 
when he felt that half his body had passed the edge of the 
precipice, and that the slightest movement would now 
launch him into space. He made this movement, mur- 
muring: ^Tf there is a God who watches over honest 
people, let Him open His eyes tliis instant !” 

The God of the just was watching. Bavois arrived at 
the end of his dangerous journey with tom and bleeding 
hands, but safe. 

He fell like a mass of rock ; and the rudeness of the 
shock drew from him a groan resembling the roar of an 
infuriated beast. For more than a minute he lay there 
upon the ground stunned and dizzy. When he rose two 
men seized him roughly. 

1 

“Ah! no foolishness,*’ he said, quickly. “It is I, 
Bavois.” This did not cause them to relax their hold. 

“How does it happen,” demanded one, in a threaten- 
ing tone, “that Baron d’Escorval falls and you succeed 
in making the descent in safety a few moments later?” 

The old soldier was too shrewd not to understand the 
whole import of this insulting question. The sorrow and 
indignation aroused within him gave him strength to 
free himself from the hands of his captors. 

“Mille tonnerres!” he exclaimed, “sol pass for a 
traitor, do I ? No, it is impossible— listen to me. ’ ’ Then, 
rapidly, but with surprising clearness, he related all the 
details of his escape, his despair, his perilous situation, 
and the almost insurmountable obstacles which he had 
overcome. To hear, was to believe. 


68 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The men— they were, of course, the retired army 
officers who had been waiting for the baron— offered 
the honest corporal their hands, sincerely sorry that they 
had wounded the feelings of a man who was so worthy 
of their respect and gratitude. 

“You will forgive us, corporal,” they said, sadly. 
“Misery renders men suspicious and unjust, and we 
are very unhappy.” 

“No offense,” he growled. “If I had trusted poor M. 
d’Escorval, he would be alive now.” 

“The baron still breathes,” said one of the officers. 

This was such astounding news that Bavois was utterly 
confounded for a moment. 

“Ah ! I will give my right hand, if necessary, to save 
him !” he exclaimed, at last. 

“If it is possible to save him, he will be saved, my 
friend. That'worthy priest whom you see there is an 
excellent physician. He is examining M. d’EscorvaTs 
wounds now. It was by his order that we procured and 
lighted this candle, which may bring our enemies upon 
us at any moment; but this is not a time for hesitation.” 

Bavois looked with all his eyes, but from where he was 
standing he could discover only a confused group of mov- 
ing figures. 

“I would like to see the poor man,” he said, sadly. 

“Come nearer, my good fellow ; fear nothing !” 

He stepped forward, and by the flickering light of the 
candle which Marie- Anne held, he saw a spectacle which 
moved him more than the horrors of the bloodiest battle- 
field. 

The baron was lying upon the ground, his head sup- 
ported on Mme, d’Escorval’s knee. His face was not 
disfigured ; but he was pale as death itself, and his eyes 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


69 


were closed. At intervals a convulsive shudder shook 
his frame, and a stream of blood gushed from his mouth. 
Hls clothing was hacked — literally hacked in pieces ; and 
it was easy to see that his body had sustained many 
frightful wounds. 

Kneeling beside the unconscious man, Abbe Midon, 
with admirable dexterity, was stanching the blood and 
applying bandages which had been torn from the linen 
of those present. Maurice and one of the officers were 
assisting him. 

• “Ah ! if I had my hands on the scoundrel who cut the 
rope,” cried the corporal, in a passion of indignation; 
*‘but, patience. I shall have him yet !” 

“Do you know who it was?” 

“Only too well !” 

I He said no more. The abbe had done all it was pos- 
sible to do, and he now lifted the wounded man a little 
Itaigher on Mme. d’Escorval’s knee. 

I This change of position elicited a moan that betrayed 
\jae unfortunate baron’s intense sufferings. He opened 
ins eyes and faltered a few words — they were the first 
lie had uttered. 


“Firmin!” he murmured, “Firmin ! ” It was the 
imme of the baron’s former secretary, a man who had 
been absolutely devoted to his master, but who had been 
dead for several years. It was evident that the baron’s 
jnind was wandering. Still he had some vague idea of 
terrible situation, for in a stifled, almost inaudible 
ice, he added: “Oh! how I suffer! Firmin, I will 
.ot fall into the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu 
ve. You shall kill me, rather— do you hear me? I 

r mmandit!” 

This was all; then his eyes closed again and his head 


70 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


fell back, a dead weight. One would have supposed 
that he had yielded up his last sigh. Such was the 
opinion of the officers ; and it was with poignant anxiety 
they drew the abbe a little aside. 

“Is it all over?” they asked. “Is there any hope?” 

The priest sadly shook his head, and pointing to heaven : 
“My hope is in God !” he said, reverently. 

The hour, the place, the terrible catastrophe, the pres- 
ent danger, the threatening future, all combined to lend 
a deep solemnity to the words of the priest. So profound 
was the impression that, for more than a minute, these 
men, familiar with peril and scenes of horror, stood in 
awed silence. Maurice, who approached, followed by 
Corporal Bavois, brought them back to the exigencies of 
the present. 

“Ought we not to make haste and carry away my 
father?” he asked. “Must we not be in Piedmont be- 
fore evening?” 

“Yes!” exclaimed the officers, “let us start at once. ” 

But the priest did not move, and in a despondent voice 
he said: “To make any attempt to carry M. d’Escorval 
across the frontier in his present condition would cost 
him his life.” 

This seemed so inevitably a death-warrant for them all 
that they shuddered. 

“My God! what shall we do?” faltered Maurice. 
“What course shall we pursue?” 

Not a voice replied. It was clear that they hoped for 
salvation through the priest alone. He was lost in 
thought, and it was some time before he spoke. 

“About an hour’s walk from here,” he said, at last, 
“beyond the Croix d’Arcy, is the hut of a peasant upon 
whom I can rely. His name is Poignot; and he was 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


71 


- formerly in Monsieur Lacheneur’s employ. With the 
assistance of his three sons, he now tills quite a large 
farm. We must procure a litter and carry Monsieur 
. d’Escorval to the house of this honest peasant.” 

-- ‘‘What, monsieur!” interrupted one of the officers, 
! “you wish us to procure a litter at this hour of the night 
ligand in this neighborhood?” 

! “It must be done.” 

“But will it not awaken suspicion?” 

“Most assuredly.” 

jj “The Montaignac police will follow us.” 

I “I am certain of it. ” 

I " “The baron will be recaptured. ” 

! “No.” The abbe spoke in the tone of a man who, by 

jj virtue of assuming all the responsibility, feels that he 
IJlias a right to be obeyed. “When the baron has been 
” conveyed to Poignot’s house,” he continued, “one of you 
I gentlemen will take the wounded man’s place upon the 
, litter ; the others will carry him, and the party will re- 
' main together until it has reached Piedmontese territory. 
Then you will separate and pretend to conceal your- 
|l selves, but do it in such a way that you are seen every- 
where.” 

All present comprehended the priest’s simple plan. 
They were to throw the emissaries sent by the Duke de 
r Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu off the track ; 
j' and at the very moment it was apparently proven that 
[ the baron was in the mountains, he would be safe in 
'■ Poignot’s house. 

! “One word more,” added the priest. “It will be nec- 
' essary to make the cortege which accompanies the pre- 
ii tended baron resemble as much as possible the little party 
that would be likely to attend Monsieur d’Escorval. 


n 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Mademoiselle Lacheneur will accompany you ; Maurice 
also. People know that I would not leave the baron, 
who is my friend ; my priestly robe would attract atten- 
tion; one of you must assume it. God will forgive this 
deception on account of its worthy motive.” 

It was now necessary to procure the litter ; and the 
officers were trying to decide where they should go to 
obtain it, when Corporal Bavois interrupted them. 

“Give yourselves no uneasiness,” he remarked; “I 
know an inn not far from here where I can procure 
one.” He departed on the run, and five minutes later 
reappeared with a small litter, a thin mattress, and a 
coverlid. He had thought of everything. 

The wounded man was lifted carefully and placed upon 
the mattress. A long and difficult operation which, in 
spite of extreme caution, drew many terrible groans from 
the baron. 

When all was ready, each officer took an end of the 
litter, and the little procession, headed by the abbe, 
started on its way. They were obliged to proceed slow- 
ly on account of the suffering which the least jolting in- 
dicted upon the baron. Still, they made some progress, 
and by daybreak they were about half way to Poignot’s 
house. 

It was then that they met some peasants going to their 
daily toil. Both men and women paused to look at them, 
and when the little cortege had passed they still stood 
gazing curiously after these people who were apparently 
carrying a dead body. 

The priest did not seem to trouble himself in regard to 
these encounters ; at least, he made no attempt to avoid 
them. But he did seem anxious and cautious when,' 


MONSIEUR . LECOQ. 


73 


after three hours’ march, they came in sight of Poignot’s 
cottage. 

Fortunately there was a little grove not far from the 
house. The abbe made the party enter it, recommend- 
ing the strictest prudence, while he went on in advance 
to confer with this man, upon whose decision the safety 
of the whole party depended. 

Aa the pries’t approached the house, a small, thin man 
with gray hair and a sunburned face emerged from the 
stable. It was Father Poignot. 

“What ! is this you, Monsieur le Cure !“ he exclaimed, 
delightedly. “Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. 
We have a great favor to ask of you — ” And then, with- 
out giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, he 
began to tell him his perplexities. The night of the re- 
volt he had given shelter to a poor man who had received 
an ugly sword - thrust. Neither his wife nor himself 
knew how to dress the wound, and he dared not call in 
a physician. “And this wounded man,” he added, “is 
Jean Lacheneur, the son of my former employer.” 

A terrible anxiety seized the priest’s heart. Would 
this man, who had already given an asylum to one 
wounded conspirator, consent to receive another? The 
abbe’s voice trembled as he made known his petition. 

The farmer turned very pale and shook his head grave- 
ly, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had 
finished : “Do you know, sir,” he asked, coldly, “that I 
incur a great risk by converting my house into a hospi- 
tal for these rebels?” 

The abbe dared not answer. 

“They told me,” Father Poignot continued, “that I 
was a coward, because I would not take part in the re- 
volt. Such was not my opinion. Now I chose to shel- 


74 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ter these wounded men— I shelter them. In my opinion, 
it requires quite as much courage as it does to go and 
fight. ’ ’ 

“Ah ! you are a brave man I” cried the abbe. 

“I know that very well. Bring Monsieur d’Escorval. 
There is no one here but my wife and boys — no one will 
betray him I” 

A half hour later the baron was lying in a small loft, 
where Jean Lacheneur was already installed. From the 
window, Abbe Midon and Mme. d’Escorval watched the 
little cortege, organized for the purpose of deceiving 
the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spies, as it moved rapidly 
away. Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with 
blood-stained linen, had taken the baron’s place upon the 
litter. 

This was one of the troubled epochs in history that try 
men’s souls. There is no chance for hypocrisy; each 
man stands revealed in his grandeur, or in his pettiness 
of soul. Certainly much cowardice was displayed dur- 
ing the early days of the second Restoration ; but many 
deeds of sublime courage and devotion were performed. 
These officers who befriended Mme. d’Escorval and Mau- 
rice — who lent their aid to the abbe — knew the baron 
only by name and reputation. It was sufficient for 
them to know that he was the friend of their former 
ruler — the man whom they had made their idol, and 
they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw M. 
d’Escorval reposing under Father Poignot’s roof in com- 
parative security. After this, their task, which consisted 
in misleading the government emissaries, seemed to 
them mere child’s play. 

But all these precautions were unnecessary. Public 
sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable man- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ., 


75 


ner, and it was evident that Lacheneur’s hopes had not 
been without some foundation. The police discovered 
nothing, not so much as a single detail of the escape. 
They did not even hear of the little party that had 
traveled nearly three leagues in the full light of day, 
bearing a wounded man upon a litter. Among the two 
thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man 
was Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned 
informer or let drop an indiscreet word. 

But on approaching the frontier, which they knew to 
be strictly guarded, the fugitives became even more cau- 
tious. They waited until nightfall before presenting 
themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure 
a guide to lead them through the defiles of the mountains. 

Frightful news awaited them there. The inn-keeper 
informed them of the bloody massacre at Montaignac. 
With tears rolling down his cheeks, he related the de- 
tails of the execution, which he had heard from an eye- 
witness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing 
of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of M. Lacheneur’s arrest. 
But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and he 
was inconsolable over the death of that “handsome young 
fellow, the best farmer in the country.” 

The ofiicers, w^ho had left the litter a short distance 
from the inn, decided that they could confide at least a 
part of their secret to this man. 

“We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,” 
they said to him. “Can you guide us across the frontier 
to-night?” 

The inn-keeper replied that he would do so very will- 
ingly, that he would promise to take them safely past the 
military posts; but that he would not think of going 
upon the mountain before the moon rose. 


76 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


By midnight the fugitives v^ere en route ; by daybreak 
they set foot on Piedmont territory. They had dismissed 
their guide some time before. They now proceeded to 
break the litter to pieces ; and handful by handful they 
cast the wool of the mattress to the wind. 

“Our task is accomplished,” the officers said to Mau- 
rice. “We will now return to France. May God protect 
you! Farewell!” 

It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice saw these 
brave men, who had just saved his father’s life, depart. 
Now he was the sole protector of Marie- Anne, who, pale 
and overcome with fatigue and emotion, trembled on his 
arm. But no — Corporal Bavois still lingered by his side. 

“And you, my friend,” he asked, sadly, “what are you 
going to do?” 

“Follow you,” replied the old soldier. “I have a right 
to a home with you; that was agreed between your 
father and myself ! So do not hurry, the young lady 
does not seem well, and I see the village only a short 
distance away. ” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Essentially a woman in grace and beauty, as well as 
in devotion and tenderness, Marie- Anne was capable of a 
virile bravery. Her energy and her coolness during 
those trying days had been the admiration and aston- 
ishment of all around her. But human endurance had 
its limits. Always after excessive efforts comes a mo- 
ment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will. 
When Marie- Anne tried to begin her journey anew, she 
found that her strength was exhausted; her swollen 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


77 


feet would no longer sustain her, her limbs sank imder 
her, her head whirled, and an intense freezing coldness 
crept over her heart. Maurice and the old soldier were 
obliged to support her, almost carry her. Fortunately, 
they were not far from the village, whose church tower 
they had discerned through the gray mists of morning. 

Soon the fugitives could distinguish the house on the 
outskirts of the town. The corporal suddenly stopped 
short with an oath. 

‘‘Mille tonnerres !” he exclaimed ; “and my uniform ! 
To enter the village in this rig would excite suspicion at 
once; before we had a chance to sit down, the Pied- 
montese gendarmes would arrest us." He reflected for 
a moment, twirling his mustache furiously ; then, in a 
tone that would have made a passer-by tremble, he said ; 
“All things are fair in love and war. The next peasant 
who passes — ” 

“But I have money,” interrupted Maurice, unbuckling 
a belt filled with gold, which he had put on under his 
clothing on the night of the revolt. 

“Eh! we are fortunate!” cried Bavois. “Give me 
some, and I will find some shop in the suburbs where I 
can purchase a change of clothing.” 

He departed ; but it was not long before he reappeared, 
transformed by a peasant’s costume which fitted him 
perfectly . His small, thin face was almost hidden be- 
neath an immense broad-brimmed hat. 

“Now, steady, forward, march !” he said to Maurice 
and Marie- Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this 
disguise. 

The town, which they soon reached, was called Sa- 
liente. They read the name upon a guide-post. The 
fourth house after entering the place was a hostlery, the 


78 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Travelers’ Rest. They entered it, and ordered the host- 
ess to take the young lady to a room and to assist her in 
disrobing. The order was obeyed, and Maurice and the 
corporal went into the dining-room and ordered some- 
thing to eat. 

The desired refreshments were served, but the glances 
cast upon the guests were by no means friendly. It was 
evident that they were regarded with suspicion. A large 
man, who was apparently the proprietor of the house, 
hovered around them, and at last embraced a favorable 
opportunity to ask their names. 

“My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the 
slightest hesitation. “I am traveling on business, and 
this man here is my farmer.” 

These replies seemed to reassure the host a little. “And 
what is your business?” he inquired 

“I came into this land of inquisitive people to buy 
mules,” laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money. 

On hearing the jingle of the coin the man lifted his 
cap deferentially. Raising mules was the chief industry 
of the country. This bourgeois was very young, but he 
had a well-filled purse, and that was enough. 

“You will excuse me,” resumed the host, in quite a 
different tone. “You see, we are obliged to be very 
careful. There has been some trouble in Montaignac. ” 

The imminence of the peril and the responsibility de- 
volving upon him gave Maurice an assurance unusual 
to him ; and it was in the most careless, off-hand manner 
possible that he concocted a quite plausible story to ex- 
plain his early arrival on foot, accompanied by a sick 
wife. He congratulated himself upon his address, but 
the old corporal was far from satisfied. 

“We are too near the frontier to bivouac here,” he 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


79 


grumbled. “As soon as the young lady is on her feet 
again we must hurry on. ’ ’ 

He believed, and Maurice hoped, that twenty-four 
hours of rest would restore Marie-Anhe. They were 
mistaken. The very springs of life in her existence 
seemed to have been drained dry. She did not appear 
to suffer, but she remained in a death-like torpor, from 
which nothing could arouse her. Thfey spoke to her, but 
she made no response. Did she hear? did she compre- 
hend? It was extremely doubtful. 

By rare good fortune the mother of the proprietor 
proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who 
would not leave the bedside of Marie-Anne — of Mme. 
Dubois, as she was called at the Travelers’ Rest. 

It was not until the evening of the third day that they 
heard Marie-Anne utter a word. “Poor girl!” she 
sighed; “poor, wretched girl!” It was of herself that 
she spoke. 

By a phenomenon not very unusual after a crisis in 
which reason has been temporarily obscured, it seemed 
to her that it was some one else who had been the victim 
of all the misfortunes, whose recollections gradually re- 
turned to her like the memory of a painful dream. 

What strange and terrible events had taken place since 
that August Sabbath, when, on leaving the church with 
her father, she heard of the arrival of the Duke de Sair- 
meuse. And that was only eight months ago. What a 
difference between those days when she lived happy and 
envied in that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which 
she believed herself the mistress, and the present time, 
when she found herself lying in the comfortless room of a 
miserable country inn, attended by an old woman whom 
she did not know, and with no other protection than 


80 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


that of an old soldier — a deserter, whose life was in con- 
stant danger — and that of her proscribed lover I 

From this total wreck of her cherished ambitions, of 
her hopes, of her fortune, of her happiness, and of her 
future, she had not even saved her honor. 

But was she alone responsible? Who had imposed 
upon her the odious role which she had played with 
Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau? 

As this last name darted through her mind, the scene 
in the prison cell rose suddenly and vividly before her. 

Chanlouineau had given her a letter, saying, as he did 
so : “You will read this when I am no more.” 

She might read it, now that he had fallen beneath the 
bullets of the soldiery. But what had become of it? 

From the moment he gave it to her until now she had 
not once thought of it. 

She raised herself in bed, and in an imperious voice : 
“My dress,” she said, to the old nurse, seated beside 
her ; “give me my dress !” 

The woman obeyed, and with an eager hand Marie- 
Anne examined the pocket. She uttered an exclamation 
of joy on finding the letter there. She opened it, read 
it slowly twice, then, sinking back on her pillows, she 
burst into tears. 

Maurice anxiously approached her. “What is the 
matter?” he inquired, anxiously. 

She handed him the letter, saying : “Read !” 

Chanlouineau was only a poor peasant. His entire 
education had been derived from an old country peda- 
gogue, whose school he attended for three winters, and 
who troubled himself much less about the progress of 
liis students than about the size of the books which they 
carried to and from the school. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


81 


This letter, which was written upon the commonest 
kind of paper, was sealed with a huge wafer, as large 
as a two-sou piece, which he had purchased from the 
grocer in Sairmeuse. The chirography was labored, 
heavy and trembling; it betrayed the stiff hand of a 
man more accustomed to guiding the plow than the pen. 
The lines zig-zagged toward the top or toward the bot- 
tom of the page, and faults of orthography were every- 
where apparent. But if the writing was that of a vul- 
gar peasant, the thoughts it expressed were worthy of 
the noblest, the proudest in the land. This was the let- 
ter which Chanlouineau had written, probably on the 
eve of the insurrection : 

“Marie-Anne— The outbreak is at hand. Whether it 
succeeds, or whether it fails, I shall die. That was de- 
cided on the day when I learned that you could marry 
none other than Maurice d’Escorval. 

“But the conspiracy will not succeed; and I under- 
stand your father well enough to know that he will not 
survive its defeat. And if Maurice and your brother 
should both be killed, what would become of you? Oh, 
my God ! would you not be reduced to beggary? 

“The thought has haunted me continually. I have 
reflected, and this is my last will : 

“I give and bequeath to you all my property, all that I 
possess : 

“My house, the Borderie, with the gardens and vine- 
yards pertaining thereto, the woodland and the pastures 
of Berarde, and five lots of land at Valrollier. 

“You will find an inventory of this property, and of 
my other possessions which I devise to you, deposited 
with the lawyer at Sairmeuse. 

“You can accept this bequest without fear; for, hav- 
ing no parents, my control over my property is absolute. 

“If you do not wish to remain in France, this property 
will sjell for at least forty thousand francs. 


82 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to re- 
main in your own country. The house on the Borderie 
is comfortable and convenient, since I have had it divided 
into three rooms and thoroughly repaired. 

“Upstairs is a room that has been fitted up by the best 
upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for you. Be- 
neath the hearthstone in this room you will find a box 
containing three hundred and twenty-seven louis d’or 
and one hundred and forty-six livres. 

“If you refuse this gift, it will be because you scorn 
me even after I am dead. Accept it, if not for your 
own sake, for the sake of — I dare not write it ; but you 
will understand my meaning only too well. 

“If Maurice is not killed, and I shall try my best to 
stand between him and danger, he will marry you. 
Then you will, perhaps, be obliged to ask his consent in 
order to accept my gift. I hope that he will not refuse 
it. One is not jealous of the dead I 

“Besides, he knows well that you have scarcely vouch- 
safed a glance to the poor peasant who has loved you so 
much. 

“Do not be offended at anything I have said, I am in 
such agony that I cannot weigh my words. 

“Adieu, adieu, Marie- Anne. 

“Chanlouineau. ” 

Maurice also read twice, before handing it back, this 
letter whose every word palpitated with sublime passion. 
He was silent for a moment, then, in a husky voice, he 
said: “You cannot refuse; it would be wrong.” 

His emotion was so great that he could not conceal it, 
and he left the room. He was overwhelmed by the 
grandeur of soul exhibited by this peasant, who, after 
saving the life of his successful rival at the Croix d’Arcy, 
had wrested Baron d’Escorval from the hands of his exe- 
cutioners, and who had never allowed a complaint nor a 
reproach to escape his lips, and whose protection over 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


83 


the woman he adored extended even from beyond the 
grave. 

In comparison with this obscure hero, Maurice felt 
himself insignificant, mediocfe, unworthy. Good God ! 
what if this comparison should arise in Marie-Anne’s 
mind as well ? How could he compete with the memory 
of such nobility of soul and heroic self-sacrifice? 

Chaulouineau was mistaken; one may, perhaps, be 
jealous of the dead! But Maurice took good care to 
conceal this poignant anxiety and these sorrowful 
thoughts, and during the days that followed, he pre- 
sented himself in Marie-Anne’s room with a calm, even 
cheerful face. 

For she, unfortunately, was not restored to health. She 
had recovered the full possession of her mental faculties, 
but her strength had not returned. She was still unable 
to sit up ; and Maurice was forced to relinquish all 
thought of quitting Saliente, though he felt the earth 
burn beneath his feet. 

This persistent weakness began to astonish the old 
nurse. Her faith in herbs, gathered by the light of the 
moon, was considerably shaken. 

Honest Bavois was the first to suggest the idea of con- 
sulting a physician whom he had found in this land of 
savages. Yes ; he had found a really skillful physician 
in the neighborhood, a man of superior ability. Attached 
at one time to the beautiful court of Prince Eugene, he 
had been obliged to flee from Milan, and had taken 
refuge in this secluded spot. 

This physician was summoned, and promptly made his 
appearance. He was one of those men whose age it is 
impossible determine. His past, whatever it might 
have been, had wrought deep" furrows on his brow, and 


84 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


his glance was as keen and piercing as his lancet. After 
visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside. “Is this 
young lady really your wife, Monsieur — Dubois?” He 
hesitated so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Mau- 
rice felt his face crimson to the roots of his hair. 

“I do not understand your question,” he retorted, 
angrily. 

“I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very 
young for a married man, and your hands are too soft 
to belong to a farmer. And when I spoke to this young 
lady of her husband, she blushed scarlet. The man who 
accompanies you has terrible mustaches for a farmer. 
Besides, you must remember that there have been 
troubles across the frontier at Montaignac.” 

From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt 
that he was discovered — that he was in this man’s 
power. What should he do? What good would denial 
do? He reflected that confession is sometimes the height 
of prudence, and that extreme confidence often meets 
with sympathy and protection ; so, in a voice trembling 
with anxiety, he said : 

“You are not mistaken, monsieur. My friend and 
myself both are fugitives, undoubtedly condemned to 
death in France at this moment.” And without giving 
the doctor time to respond, he narrated the terrible 
events that had happened at Sairmeuse, and the history 
of his unfortunate love-affair. He omitted nothing. He 
neither concealed his own name nor that of Marie- Anne. 

When his recital was completed, the physician pressed 
his hand. 

“It is just as I supposed,” said he. “Believe me. Mon- 
sieur — Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have 
discovered, others will discover. And above all, do not 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


85 


warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not 
been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone 
has kept his mouth closed. He has seen your money, and 
so long as you spend it at his house he will hold his 
tongue ; but if he discovers that you are going away, he 
will probably betray you.” 

“Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this 
place?” 

“In two days the young lady will be on her feet again,” 
interrupted the physician. “And take my advice. At 
the next village, stop and give your name to Mademoi- 
selle Lacheneur.” 

“Ah! sir,” Maurice exclaimed; ‘have you considered 
the advice you offer me? How can I, a proscribed man 
— a man condemned to death, perhaps — how can I obtain 
the necessary papers?” 

The physician shook his head. 

“Excuse me, you are no longer in France, Monsieur 
d’Escorval, you are in Piedmont.” 

“Another difficulty!” 

“No, because in this country people marry, or at least 
they can marry, without all the formalities that cause 
you so much anxiety.” 

“Is it possible?” Maurice exclaimed. 

“Yes ; if you can find a priest who will consent to your 
union, inscribe your name upon his parish register, and 
give you a certificate, you will be so indissolubly united. 
Mademoiselle Lacheneur and you, that the court of Rome 
would never grant you a divorce.” 

To suspect the truth of these affirmations was difficult, 
and yet Maurice doubted still. 

“So, sir,” he said, hesitatingly; “in case I was able to 
find a priest— ” 


86 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The physician was silent. One might have supposed 
he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that 
did not concern him. Then, almost bruskly, he said : 

‘•Listen to me attentively, Monsieur d’Escorval. I am 
bound to take my leave, but before I go I shall take oc- 
casion to recommend a good deal of exercise for the^ick 
lady — I will do this before your host. Consequently, day 
after to-morrow, Wednesday, you will hire mules, and 
you. Mademoiselle Lacheneur, and your old friend, the 
soldier, will leave the hotel as if going on a pleasure ex- 
cursion. You will push on to Vigano, three leagues 
from here, where I live. I will take you to a priest, one 
of my friends ; and he, upon my recommendation, will 
perform the marriage ceremony. Now, reflect, shall I 
expect you on Wednesday?” 

“Oh, yes! yes, monsieur. How can I ever thank 
you?” 

“By not thanking me at all. See, here is the inn- 
keeper; you are Monsieur Dubois, again.” 

Maurice was intoxicated with joy. He understood the 
irregularity of such a marriage, but he knew it would 
reassure Marie- Anne’s troubled conscience. Poor girl ! 
she was suffering an agony of remorse. It was that 
which was killing her. He did not speak to her on the 
subject, however, fearing something might occur to 
interfere with the project. 

But the old physician had not given his word lightly, 
and. every thing took place as he had promised. The 
priest at Vigano blessed the marriage of Maurice d’Es- 
corval and of Marie- Anne Lacheneur, and after inscrib- 
ing their names upon the church register, he gave them 
a certificate, upon which the physician and Corporal 
Bavois figured as witnesses. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


87 


That same evening the mules were sent back to Sa- 
liente, and the fugitives resumed their journey. 

Abbe Midon had counseled them to reach Turin as 
quickly as possible. “It is a large city,” he said; “you 
will be lost in the crowd. I have more than one friend 
there, whose name and address are upon this paper. 
Go to them, and in that way I will try to send you 
news of your father.” 

So it was toward Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne and 
Corporal Bavois directed their steps. But their progress 
was very slow, for they were obliged to avoid frequented 
roads, and renounce the ordinary modes of transporta- 
tion. The fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting Marie- 
Anne, seemed to revive her. After five or six days the 
color came back to her cheek and her strength returned. 

“Fate seems to have relaxed her rigor,” said Maurice 
one day. “Who knows what compensations the future 
may have in store for us !” 

No, Fate had not taken pity upon them ; it was only 
a short respite granted by destiny. One lovely April 
morning the fugitives stopped for breakfast at an inn on 
the outskirts of a large city. Maurice, having finished 
his repast, was just leaving the table to settle with the 
hostess, when a despairing cry arrested him. 

Marie-Anne, deadly pale, and with eyes staringly 
wildly at a paper which she held in her hand, ex- 
claimed in frenzied tones: “Here! Maurice! Look!” 

It was a French journal about a fortnight old which 
had probably been left there by some traveler. Maurice 
seized it, and read : 

“Yesterday, Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in 
Montaignac, was executed. The miserable mischief- 


88 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


maker exhibited upon the scaffold the audacity for 
which he has always been famous.” 

“My father has been put to death !” cried Marie- Anne, 
“and I— his daughter — was not there to receive his last 
farewell !” 

She rose, and, in an imperious voice; “I will go no 
further,” she said; “we must turn back now without 
losing an instant. I wish to return to France.” 

To return to France was to expose themselves to 
frightful peril. Wha.t good would it do? Was not the 
misfortune irreparable? So Corporal Bavois suggested, 
very timidly. The old soldier trembled at the thought 
that they might suspect him of being afraid. But Mau- 
rice would not listen. He shuddered. It seemed to him 
that Baron d’Escorval must have been discovered and 
arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was captured. 

“Yes, let us start at once on our return !” he exclaimed. 

They immediately procured a carriage to convey them 
to the frontier. One important question, however, re- 
mained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie- Anne 
make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but 
Maurice entreated her, with tears in his eyes, to con- 
ceal it. 

“Our marriage certificate will not silence the evil dis- 
posed,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the pres- 
ent. We shall doubtless remain in France only a few 
days.” 

Unfortunately, Marie- Anne yielded. “Since you wish 
it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know it.” 

The next day, which was the seventeenth of April, the 
fugitives, at nightfall, reached Father Poignot’s house. 
Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


89 


The old soldier had made one sacrifice that drew tears 
from his eyes : he had shaved off his mustache. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

When Abbe Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held their 
conference, to discuss and to decide upon the arrange- 
ments for the Baron d’EscorvaTs escape, a diflBLculty pre- 
sented itself which threatened to break off the negotia- 
tion. 

“Return my letter,” said Martial, “and I will save the 
baron.” 

“Save the baron,” replied the abbe, “and your letter 
shall be returned.” 

But Martial’s was one of those natures which become 
exasperated by the least shadow of suspicion. The idea 
that any one should suppose him influenced by threats, 
when, in reality, he had yielded only to Marie- Anne’s 
tears, angered him beyond endurance. 

“These are my last words, monsieur,” he said, em- 
phatically. “Restore to me, now, this instant, the letter 
which was obtained from me by Chanlouineau’s ruse, 
and I swear to you, by the honor of my name, that all 
which it is possible for any human being to do to save 
the baron, I will do. If you distrust my word, good- 
evening.” 

The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the 
time limited ; Martial’s tone betrayed an inflexible de- 
termination. The abbe could not hesitate. He drew 
the letter from his pocket and, handing it to Martial : 
“Here it is, monsieur,” he said, solemnly, “remember 
that you have pledged the honor of your name.” 


90 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I will remember it, Monsieur le Cure. Go and obtain 
the ropes.” 

The abbe’s sorrow and amazement were intense, when, 
after the baron’s terrible fall, Maurice announced that 
the cord had been cut. And yet he could not make up 
his mind that Martial was guilty of the execrable act. 
It betrayed a depth of duplicity and hypocrisy which is 
rarely found in men under twenty-five years of age. But 
no one suspected his secret thoughts. It was with the 
most unalterable sang-froid that he dressed the baron ’s 
wounds and made arrangements for the flight. Not un- 
til he saw M. d’Escorval installed in Poignot’s house 
did he breathe freely. 

The fact that the baron had been able to endure the 
journey proved that in this poor maimed body remained 
a power of vitality for which the priest had not dared 
to hope. Some way must now be discovered to procure 
the surgical instruments and the remedies which the 
condition of the wounded man demanded. But where 
and how could he procure them? The police kept a 
close watch over the physicians and druggists in Mon- 
taignac, in the hope of discovering the wounded con- 
spirators through them. 

But the cure, who had been for ten years physician 
and surgeon for the poor of his parish, had an almost 
complete set of surgical instruments and a well-filled 
medicine chest. 

“This evening,” said he, “I will obtain what is need- 
ful.” 

When night came, he put on a long, blue blouse, 
shaded his face by an immense slouch hat, and directed 
his steps toward Sairmeuse. 

Not a light was visible through the windows of the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


91 


‘ presbytery. Bibiane, the old housekeeper, must have 
I gone out to gossip with some of the neighbors. 

The priest effected an entrance into the house, which 
' liad once been his, by forcing the lock of the door open- 
ing on the garden ; he found the requisite articles, and 
retired without having been discovered. 

That night the abbe hazarded a cruel but indispensable 
operation. His heart trembled, but not the hand that 
! held the knife, although he had never before attempted 
so difficult a task. 

jjl “It is not upon my weak powers that I rely; I have 
I placed my trust in One who is on High.” 

' His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded 
;j man, after quite a comfortable night, seemed to regain 
consciousness. 

*■ His first glance was for his devoted wife; who was 
seated by his bedside ; his first word was for his son. 
“Maurice?” he asked. 

j “Is in safety,” replied the abbe. .“He must be on the 
Way to Turin.” 

' M. d’Escorval’s lips moved as if he were murmuring 
a prayer ; then, in a feeble voice : 

■ t “We owe you a debt of gratitude which we can never 
' fay,” he murmured, “for I think I shall pull through.” 

I fcle did “pull through,” but not without terrible suffer- 
I : ’ng, not without difficulties that made those around him 
I remble with anxiety. Jean Lacheneur, more fortunate, 
j. was on his feet by the end of the week. 

Forty days had passed, when one evening — it was the 
j seventeenth of April — while the abbe was reading a 
ttewspaper to the baron, the door gently opened and 
One of the Poignot boys put in his head, then quickly 
withdrew it. 


92 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The priest finished the paragraph, laid down the 
paper, and quietly went out. 

“What is it?” he inquired of the young man. 

“Ah! monsieur. Monsieur Maurice, Mademoiselle 
Lacheneur and the old corporal have just arrived ; they 
wish to com^ up.” 

In three bounds the abbe descended the narrow stair- 
case. 

“Unfortunate creatures!” he exclaimed, addressing 
the three imprudent travelers, “what has induced you 
to return here?” Then turning to Maurice: “Is it not 
enough that for you, and through you, your father has 
nearly died? Are you afraid he will not be recaptured, 
that you return here to set his enemies upon his track ? 
Depart 1” 

The poor boy, quite overwhelmed, faltered his excuse. 
Uncertainty seemed -to him worse than death ; he had 
heard of M. Lacheneur’s execution; he had not reflected, 
he would go at once; he asked only to see his father and 
to embrace his mother. The priest was inflexible. 

“The slightest emotion might kill your father,” he 
declared; “and to tell your mother of your return, and 
of the dangers to which you have foolishly exposed 
yourself, would cause her untold tortures. Go at once. 
Cross the frontier again this very night.” 

Jean Lacheneur, who had witnessed this scene, now 
approached. 

“It is time for me to depart,” said he, “and I entreat 
you to care for my sister ; the place for her is here, not 
upon the highways. ’ ’ 

The abbe deliberated for a moment, then he said 
bruskly: “So be it; but go at once; your name is not 
upon the proscribed list. You will not be pursued.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


93 


Thus, suddenly separated from his wife, Maurice 
wished to confer with her, to give her some parting 
advice ; but the abbe did not allow him an opportunity. 

“Go, go at once,” he insisted. “Farewell !” 

The good abbe was too hasty. Just when Maurice 
stood sorely in need of wise counsel, he was thus de- 
livered over to the influence of Jean Lacheneur’s furious 
hatred. As soon as they were outside : 

“This,” exclaimed Jean, “is the work of the Sairmeuse 
and the Marquis de Courtornieu ! I do not even know 
where they have thrown the body of my murdered 
parent ; you cannot even embrace the father who has 
been traitorously assassinated by them!” He laughed 
a harsh, discordant, terrible laugh, and continued : “And 
yet, if we ascended that hill, we could see the Chateau 
de Sairmeuse in the distance, brightly illuminated. They 
are celebrating the marriage of Martial de Sairmeuse 
and Blanche de Courtornieu. We are homeless wan- 
derers without friends, and without a shelter for our 
heads; they are feasting and making merry.” 

Less than this would have sufficed to rekindle the 
wrath of Maurice. He forgot everything in saying to 
himself that to disturb this fete by his appearance would 
be a vengeance worthy of him. 

“I will go and challenge Martial now, on the instant, 
in the presence of the revelers I” he exclaimed. 

But Jean interrupted him. 

“No, not that! They are cowards; they would arrest 
you. "Write; I will be the bearer of the letter.” 

Corporal Bavois heard them; but he did not oppose 
their folly. He thought it all perfectly natural, under 
the circumstances, and esteemed them the more for their 
rashness. 


94 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Forgetful of prudence, they entered the first shop, and 
the challenge was written and confided to Jean Lache- 
neur. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

To disturb the merry-making at the Chateau de Sair- 
meuse ; to change the joy of the bridal-day into sadness ; 
to cast a gloom over the nuptials of Martial and Mdlle. 
Blanche de Courtornieu. This, in truth, was all that 
• Jean Lacheneur hoped to do. As for believing that 
Martial, triumphant and happy, would accept the chal- 
lenge of Maurice, a miserable outlaw, he did not be- 
lieve it. 

While awaiting Martial in the vestibule of the chateau, 
he armed himself against the scorn and sneers which he 
would probably receive from this haughty nobleman' 
whom he had come to insult. 

But Martial’s kindly greeting had disconcerted him a 
little. But he was reassured when he saw the terrible 
effect produced upon the marquis by the insulting letter. 

“We have cut him to the quick !’’ he thought. 

When Martial seized him by the arm and led him up- 
stairs, he made no resistance. While they traversed the 
brightly lighted drawing-rooms and passed through the 
crowd of astonished guests, Jean thought neither of his 
heavy shoes nor of his peasant dress. Breathless with 
anxiety, he wondered what was to come. 

He soon knew. Leaning against the gilded door-post, 
he witnessed the terrible scene in the little salon. He 
saw Martial de Sairmeuse, frantic with passion, cast into 
the face of his father-in-law Maurice d’Escorval’s letter. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


95 


One might have supposed that all this did not affect 
him in the least, he stood so cold and unmoved, with 
compressed lips and downcast eyes ; but appearances 
were deceitful. His heart throbbed with wild exulta- 
tion ; and if he cast down his eyes, it was only to con- 
ceal the joy that sparkled there. 

He had not hoped for so prompt and so terrible a 
revenge. Nor was this all. After brutally repulsing 
'Blanche, his newly-wedded wife, who attempted to 
detain him, Martial again seized Jean Lacheneur’s arm. 

I “Now,” said he, “follow me !” 

Jean followed him still without a word. They again 
crossed the grand hall, but instead of going to the vesti- 
bule, Martial took a candle that was burning upon a side 
table, and opened a little door leading to the private stair- 
case. 

' “Where are you taking me?” inquired Lean Lache- 
I Beur. 

Martial, who had already ascended two or three steps, 

; turned. “Are you afraid?” he asked. 

The other shrugged his shoulders, and coldly replied : 
“If you put it in that way, let us go on.” 

They entered the room which Martial had occupied 
since taking possession of the chateau. It was the same 
^oom that had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur ; and 
nothing had been changed. He recognized the brightly- 
flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet, and even an 
old arm-chair where he had read many a novel in secret. 

I Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and took 
^rom it a paper which he slipped into his pocket. 

“Now,” said he, “let us go. We must avoid another 
scene. My father and— my wife will be seeking me. I 
will explain when we are outside.” 


96 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


They hastily descended the staircase, passed through 
the gardens, and soon reached the long avenue. 

Then Jean Lacheneur suddenly paused. 

“To come so far for a simple yes or no is, I think, 
minecessary,'’ said he. “Have you decided? What an- 
swer am I to give Maurice d’Escorval?” 

“Nothing I You will take me to him. I must see him 
and speak with him in order to justify myself. Let us 
proceed!” 

But Jean Lacheneur did not move. 

“What you ask is impossible !” he replied. 

“Why?” 

“Because Maurice is pursued. If he is captured, he 
will be tried and undoubtedly condemned to death. He 
is now in a safe retreat, and I have no right to disclose 
it.” 

Maurice’s safe retreat was, in fact, only a neighboring 
wood, where, in company with the corporal, he'^.was 
awaiting Jean’s return. 

But Jean could not resist the temptation to make this 
response, which was far more insulting than if he had 
simply said : “We fear informers !” 

Strange as it may appear to one who knew Martial’s 
proud and violent nature, he did not resent the insult. 

“So you distrust me !” he said sadly. 

Jean Lacheneur was silent — another insult. 

“But, ” insisted Martial, “after what you have just seen 
and heard, you can no longer suspect me of having cut 
the ropes which I carried to the baron?” 

“No! I am convinced that you are innocent of that 
atrocious act. ’ ’ 

“You saw how I punished the man who dared to com- 
promise the honor of the name of Sairmeuse. And this 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


97 


man is the father of the young girl whom I wedded to- 
day.” 

‘‘I have seen all this; but I must still reply : ‘Impos- 
sible!’” 

Jean was amazed at the patience, we should rather 
say, the humble resignation displayed by Martial de 
Sairmeuse. 

Instead of rebelling against this manifest injustice. 
Martial drew from his pocket the paper which he had 
just taken from his desk, and handing it to Jean : 

‘‘Those who have brought upon me the shame of hav- 
ing my word doubted shall be punished for it,” he said 
grimly. ‘‘You do not believe in my sincerity, Jean. 
Here is a proof, which I expect you to give to Maurice, 
and which cannot fail to convince even you.” 

‘‘What is this proof?” 

‘‘The letter written by my hand in exchange for which 
my father assisted in the baron’s escape. An inexplic- 
able presentiment prevented me from burning this com- 
promising letter. To-day, I rejoice that such was the 
case. Take it, and use it as you will.” 

Any one sav^e Jean Lacheneur would have been touched 
by this generosity of soul. But Jean was implacable. 
His was a nature which nothing can disarm, which noth- 
ing can mollify ; hatred in his heart was a passion which, 
instead of growing weaker with time, increased and be- 
came more terrible. He would have sacrificed anything 
at that moment for the ineffable joy of seeing this proud 
and detested marquis at his feet. 

‘‘Very well, I will give it to Maurice,” he responded, 
coldly. 

‘‘It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me,” said 
Martial, gently. 


98 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Jean Lacheneur made a gesture terrible in its irony 
and menace. 

“A bond of alliance!” he exclaimed. “You are too 
fast, Monsieur le Marquis ! Have you forgotten all the 
blood that flows between us? You did not cut the ropes ; 
but who condemned the innocent Baron d'Escorval to 
death? Was it not the Duke de Sairmeuse? An alli- 
ance ! You have forgotten that you and yours sent my 
father to the scaffold! How have you rewarded the 
man whose heroic honesty gave you back a fortune? 
By murdering him, and by ruining the reputation of his 
daughter!” • 

“I offered my nanie and my fortune to your sister.” 

“I would have killed her with my own hand had she 
accepted your offer. Let this prove to you that I do not 
forget. If any great disgrace ever tarnishes the proud 
name of Sairmeuse, think of Jean Lacheneur. My hand 
will be in it !” 

He was so frantic with passion that he forgot his usual 
caution. By a violent effort he recovered his self-pos- 
session, and in calmer tones he added : 

“And if you are so desirous of seeing Maurice, be at 
the Reche to-morrow at mid-day. He will be there.” 

Having said this, he turned abruptly aside, sprang over 
the fence skirting the* avenue, and disappeared in the 
darkness. 

“Jean,” cried Martial, in almost supplicating tones; 
“Jean, come back — listen to me !” 

No response. 

A sort of bewilderment had seized the young marquis, 
and he stood motionless and dazed in the middle of the 
road. A horse and rider, on their way to Montaignac, 
that nearly ran over him, aroused him from his stupor ; 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


99 


and the consciousness of his acts, which he had lost while 
reading the letter from Maurice, came back to him. 

Now he could judge of his conduct calmly. Was it 
indeed he, Martial, the phlegmatic skeptic, the man who 
boasted of his indifference and his insensibility, who had 
thus forgotten all self-control ? 

Alas I yes. ' And when Blanche de Courtornieu, now 
and henceforth the Marquise de Sairmeuse, accused 
Marie- Anne of being the cause of his frenzy, she had 
not been entirely wrong. 

Martial, who regarded the opinion of the entire world 
with disdain, was rendered frantic by the thought that 
Marie- Anne despised him, and considered him a traitor 
and a coward. 

It was for her sake that, in his outburst of rage, he re- 
solved upon such a startling justification. And if he 
besought Jean to lead him to Maurice d’Escorval, it was 
because he hoped to find Marie- Anne not far off, and to 
say to her: “Appearances were against me, but I am 
innocent ; and I have proved it by unmasking the real 
culprit.” 

It was to Marie-Anne that he wished this famous letter 
to be given, thinking that she, at least, could not fail to 
be surprised at his generosity. 

His expectations had been disappointed ; and now he 
realized what a terrible scandal he had created. 

“It will be the devil to arrange !” he exclaimed; “but 
nonsense ! it will be forgotten in a month. The best way 
will be to face those gossips at once ; I will return imme- 
diately.” 

He said: “I will return,” in the most deliberate man- 
ner; but in proportion as he neared the chateau, his 
courage failed him. 


100 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The guests must have departed ere this, and Martial 
concluded that he would probably find himself alone 
with his young wife, his father, and the Marquis de 
Courtornieu. What reproaches, tears, anger, and 
threats he would be obliged to encounter. 

“No,” he muttered. “I am not such a fool! Let 
them have a night to calm themselves. I will not ap- 
pear until to-morrow.” 

But where should he pass the night? He was in even- 
ing-dress and bareheaded ; he began to feel cold. The 
house belonging to the duke in Montaignac would afford 
him a refuge. 

“I shall find a bed, some servant, a fire, and a change 
of clothing there — and to-morrow, a horse to return.” 

It was quite a distance to walk ; but in his present 
mood this did not displease him. 

The servant who came to open the door when he rapped 
was speechless with astonishment on recognizing him. 

“You, monsieur!” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, it is I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room 
for me, and bring me a change of clothing.” 

The valet obeyed, and soon Martial found himself 
alone, stretched upon a sofa before the cheerful blaze. 

“It would be a good thing to sleep and forget my 
troubles,” he said to himself. 

He tried ; but it was not until nearly morning that he 
fell into a feverish slumber. He awoke about nine 
o’clock, ordered breakfast, concluded to return to Sair- 
meuse, and he was eating with a good appetite, when 
suddenly : 

“Have a horse saddled instantly I” he exclaimed. 

He .had just remembered the rendezvous with Mau- 
rice. Why should he not go there? 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


101 


He set out at once, and, thanks to a spirited horse, he 
reached the Reche at half-past eleven o’clock. The 
others had not yet arrived ; he fastened his horse to a 
tree near by, and leisurely climbed to the summit of the 
hill. 

This spot had been the site of Lacheneur’s house. The 
four walls still remained standing, blackened by fire. 
Martial was contemplating the ruins, not without deep 
emotion, when he heard a sharp crackling in the under- 
brush. He turned : Maurice, Jean and Corporal Bavois 
were approaching. 

The old soldier carried under his arm a long and nar- 
row package enveloped in a piece of green serge. It con- 
tained the swords which Jean Lacheneur had gone to 
Montaignac during the night to procure from a retired 
officer. 

“We are sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Mau- 
rice, “but you will observe that it is not yet mid-day. 
Since we scarcely expected to see you — ” 

“I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here 
early,” interrupted Martial. 

Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. 

“It is not a question of self-justification, but of fight- 
ing,” he said, in a tone rude even to insolence. 

Insulting as were the words and the gesture that ac- 
companied them. Martial never so much as winced. 

“Sorrow has rendered you unjust,” said he, gently, “or 
Monsieur Lacheneur here has told you nothing.” 

“Jean has told me all.” 

“Well, then?” 

Martial’s coolness drove Maurice frantic. 

“Well,” he replied, with extreme violence, “my 
hatred is unabated even if my scorn is diminished. You 


102 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


have owed me an opportunity to avenge myself, mon- 
sieur, ever since the day we met on the square at Sair- 
meuse in the presence of Mademoiselle Lacheneur. You 
said to me on that occasion : ‘We shall meet again/ Here 
we stand now, face to face. What insults must I heap 
upon you to decide you to fight?” 

A fiood of crimson dyed Martial’s face. He seized one 
of the swords which Bavois offered him, and assumed 
an attitude of defense. 

“You will have it so,” said he, in a husky voice. “The 
thought of Marie- Anne can no longer save you 1” 

But the blades had scarcely crossed before a cry from 
Jean and from Corporal Bavois arrested the combat. 

“The soldiers !” they exclaimed ; “let us fiy I” 

A dozen soldiers were indeed approaching, at the top 
of their speed. 

“Ah! I spoke the truth!” exclaimed Maurice. “The 
coward came, but the gendarmes accompanied him I” 

He bounded back, and breaking his sword over his 
knee he hurled the fragments in Martial’s face, saying : 

“Here, miserable wretch !” 

“Wretch!” repeated Jean and Corporal Bavois, 
“traitor! coward!” And they fied, leaving Martial 
thunderstruck. 

He struggled hard to regain his composure. The sol- 
diers were very near; he ran to meet them, and, ad- 
dressing the officer in command, he said, imperiously : 

“Do you know who I am?” 

“Yes,” replied the sergeant, respectfully, “you are 
the son of the Duke de Sairmeuse.” 

“Very well ! I forbid you to follow those men.” 

The sergeant hesitated at first ; then, in a decided tone, 
'^e replied : 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


103 


I cannot obey you, sir. I have my orders.” And, 
addressing his men: “Forward!” he exclaimed. He 
was about to set the example, when Martial seized him 
by the arm. 

“At least you will not refuse to tell me who sent you 
here?” 

“Who sent us? The colonel, of course, in obedience 
to orders from the grand prevot, Monsieur de Courtor- 
nieu. He sent the order last night. We have been hid- 
den in that grove since daybreak. But release me— 
tonnerre! would you have my expedition fail entirely?” 
He hurried away, and Martial, staggering like a drunken 
man, descended the slope and remounted his horse. 

But he did not repair to the Chateau de Sairmeuse ; 
he returned to Montaignac, and passed the remainder of 
the afternoon in the solitude of his own room. That 
evening he sent two letters to Sairmeuse. One to his 
father, the other to his wife. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Terrible as Martial imagined the scandal to be which 
he had created, his conception of it by no means equaled 
the reality. Had a thunderbolt burst beneath that roof, 
the guests at Sairmeuse could not have been more amazed 
and horrified. A shudder passed over the assembly when 
Martial, terrible in his passion, flung the crumpled let- 
ter full in the face of the Marquis de Courtornieu. And 
when the marquis sank half fainting into an arm-chair, 
some young ladies of extreme sensibility could not re- 
press a cry of fear. For twenty seconds after Martial 


104 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


disappeared with Jean Lacheneur, the guests stood as 
motionless as statues, pale, mute, stupefied. It was 
Blanche who broke the spell. 

While the Marquis de Courtornieu was panting for 
breath — while the Duke de Sairmeuse was trembling 
and speechless with suppressed anger, the young mar- 
quise made a heroic attempt to come to the rescue. 
With her hand still aching from Martial’s brutal clasp, 
a heart swelling with rage and hatred, and a face whiter 
than her bridal veil, she had strength to restrain her 
tears and to compel her lips to smile. 

“Really, this is placing too much importance on a 
trifling misunderstanding which will be explained to- 
morrow,” she said, almost gayly, to those nearest her. 
And, stepping into the middle of the hall, she made a 
sign to the musicians to play a country-dance. 

But when the first measures floated through the air, 
the company, as if by unanimous consent, hastened 
toward the door. One might have supposed the chateau 
on fire— the guests did not withdraw, they actually fled. 

An hour before, the Marquis de Courtornieu and the 
Duke de Sairmeuse had been overwhelmed with the 
most obsequious homage and adulation. But now there 
was not one in that assembly daring enough to take 
them openly by the hand. Just when they believed 
themselves all-powerful they were rudely precipitated 
from their lordly eminence. Disgrace and perhaps 
punishment were to be their portion. 

Heroic to the last, the bride endeavored to stay the 
tide of retreating guests. Stationing herself near the 
door, with her most bewitching smile upon her lips, 
Mme. Blanche spared neither flattering words nor en- 
treaties in her efforts to reassure the deserters. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


lOo 


Vain attempt I Useless sacrifice I Many ladies were 
not sorry of an opportunity to repay the young Marquise 
de Sairmeuse for the disdain and the caustic words of 
Blanche de Courtornieu. Soon all the guests, virho had 
so eagerly presented themselves that morning, had dis- 
appeared, and there remained only one old gentleman 
who, on account of his gout, had deemed it prudent not 
to mingle with the crowd. He bowed in passing before 
the young marquise, and blushing at this insult to a 
woman, he departed as the others had done. 

Blanche was now alone. There was no longer any 
necessity for- constraint. There were no more curious 
witnesses to enjoy her sufferings and to make comment 
upon them. With a furious gesture she tore her bridal 
veil and the wreath of orange flowers from her head 
and trampled them under foot. 

A servant was passing through the hall ; she stopped 
him. 

“Extinguish the lights everywhere!” she ordered, 
with an angry stamp of her foot, as if she had been in 
her own father’s house, and not at Sairmeuse. 

He obeyed her, and then, with flashing eyes and dis- 
heveled hair, she hastened to the little salon in which the 
denouement had taken place. A crowd of servants sur- 
rounded the marquis, who was lying like one stricken 
with apoplexy. 

“All the blood in his body has flown to his head,” re- 
marked the duke, with a shrug of the shoulders. 

For the duke was furious with his former friends. He 
scarcely knew with whom he was most angry. Martial 
or the Marquis de Courtornieu. Martial, by this public 
confession, had certainly imperiled, if he had not ruined, 
their political future. But, on the other hand, had not 


106 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the Marquis de Courtomieu represented a Sairmeuse as 
being guilty of an act of treason revolting to any honor- 
able heart? Buried in a large arm-chair, he sat watch- 
ing, with contracted brows, the movements of the ser- 
vants, when his daughter-in-law entered the room. She 
paused before him, and with arms folded tightlj' acrc?«. ■ 
her breast, she said, angrily : 

“Why did you remain here, while I was left alone to 
endure such humiliation? Ah I had I been a man ! All 
our guests have fled, monsieur— all I” 

M. de Sairmeuse sprang up. “Ah, welll what if they 
have? Let them go to the devil !“ 

Of the guests that had just left his house there wa%^ , 
not one whom the duke really regretted — not one whom 
he regarded as an equal. In giving a marriage feast for 
his son he had bidden all the gentry of the neighbol^ 
hood. They had come — very well 1 They had fled — bon 
voyage ! If the duke cared at all for their desertion, it 
was only because it presaged with terrible eloquence the 
disgrace that was to come. Still, he tried to deceive 
himself. 

“They will return, madame; you will see them re- 
turn, humble and repentant! But where can Martial 
be?” 

The lady's eyes flashed, but she made no reply. 

“Did he go away with the son of that rascal, Lache- 
neur?” 

“I believe so. ” • 

“It will not be long before he returns — ” 

“Who can say?” 

M. de Sairmeuse struck the marble mantel heavily 
with his clinched fist. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


107 


“My God!” he exclaimed, “this is an overwhelming 
misfortune.” 

The young wife believed that he was anxious and 
angry on her account. But she was mistaken. He was 
thinking only of his disappointed ambition. Whatever 
be might pretend, the duke secretly confessed his son’s 
V-ur priority and his genius for intrigue, and he was now 
extremely anxious to consult him. 

“He has wrought this evil; it is for him to repair it! 
And he is capable of it, if he chooses,” he murmured. 
Then, aloud, he resumed: “Martial must be found — he 
must be found — ” 

With an angry gesture, Blanche interrupted him. 

‘You must seek Marie- Anne, if you wish to find — my 
husband.” 

"^Iie duke was of the same opinion, but he dared not 
avow it. “Anger leads you astray, marquise,” said he. 

“I know what I know.” 

“Martial will soon make his appearance, believe me. 
If he went away, he will soon return. They shall go for 
hire at once, or I will go for him myself — ” 

He left the room with a muttered oath, and Blanche 
approached her father, who still seemed to be uncon- 
scious. She seized his arm and shook it roughly, saying, 
in tae most peremptory tone : “Father! father!” 

"’'i'.is voice, which had so often made the Marquis de 
Courtornieu tremble, was far more efficacious than eau 
de Cologne. He opened one eye the least bit in the 
wc rid, then quickly closed it, but not so quickly that 
his daughter failed to discover it. 

“I wish to speak with you,” she said ; “get up !” 

He dared not disobey, and slowly and with difficulty 
he raised himself. 


108 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Ah 1 how I suffer !’' he groaned, “how I suffer I” 

His daughter glanced at him scornfully; then, in a 
tone of bitter irony, she remarked : 

“Do you think I am in Paradise?” 

“Speak!” sighed the marquis. “What do you wish 
to say?” 

The bride turned haughtily to the servants. 

“Leave the room!” she said, imperiously. 

They obeyed, and, after she had locked the door : 

“Let us speak of Martial,” she began. 

At the sound of this name, the marquis bounded from 
his chair with clinched fists. 

“Ah! the wretch!” he exclaimed. 

“Martial is my husband, father.” 

“And you ! — after what he has done — you dare to de- 
fend him?” 

“I do not defend him; but I do not wish him to be 
murdered.” 

At that moment the news of Martial’s death would 
have given the Marquis de Courtornieu infinite satisfac- 
tion. 

“You heard, father,” continued Blanche, “the rendez- 
vous appointed to-morrow, at mid-day, on the Reche. I 
know Martial ; he has been insulted, and he will go there. 
Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No. He will find 
a crowd of assassins. You alone can prevent him from 
being assassinated.” 

“I — and how?” 

“By sending some soldiers to the Reche, with orders 
to conceal themselves in the grore— with orders to arrest 
these murderers at the proper moment.” 

The marquis gravely shook his head. “If I did that,” 
said he, “Martial is quite capable — ” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


109 


“Of anything !— yes, I know it. But what does that 
matter to you, since I am willing to assume the respon. 
sibility?” 

M. de Courtornieu vainly tried to penetrate the bride’s 
real motive. 

“The order to Montaignac must be sent at once,’’ she 
insisted. 

Had she been less excited, she would have discerned 
the gleam of malice in her father’s eye. He was think- 
ing that this would afford him an ample revenge, since 
he could bring dishonor upon Martial, who had shown 
so little regard for the honor of others. 

“Very well; since you will have it so,” he said, with 
feigned reluctance. 

His daughter made haste to bring him ink and pens, 
and with trembling hands he prepared a series of mi- 
nute instructions for the commander at Montaignac. 
Blanche herself gave the letter to a servant, with direc- 
tions to depart at once ; and it was not until she had 
seen him set off on a gallop that she went to her own 
apartments— the apartments in which Martial had gath- 
ered together all that was most beautiful and luxu- 
rious. But this splendor only aggravated the misery 
of the deserted wife, for that she was deserted she did 
not doubt for a moment. She was sure that her hus- 
band would not return ; she did not expect him. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse was searching the neighbor- 
hood with a party of servants, but she knew that it was 
labor lost; that they would not encounter Martial. 
Where could he be? Near Marie- Anne, most assuredly 
—and at the thought a wild desire to wreak her ven- 
geance on her rival took possession of her heart. 

Martial, at Montaignac, had ended by going to sleep. 


110 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Blanche, when daylight came, exchanged the snowy 
bridal robes for a black dress, and wandered about the 
garden like a restless spirit. She spent most of the day 
shut up in her room, refusing to allow the duke, or even 
her father, to enter. 

In the evening, about eight o’clock, they received 
tidings from Martial. A servant brought two letters; 
one, sent by Martial to his father, the other to his wife. 
For a moment or more Blanche hesitated to open the 
one intended for her. It would determine her destiny, 
she was afraid. At last she broke the seal, and read : 

“Madame la Marquise— Between you and me all is 
ended ; reconciliation is impossible. 

“From this moment, you are free. I esteem you 
enough to hope that you will respect the name of Sair- 
meuse, from which I cannot relieve you. 

“You will agree with me, I am sure, in thinking a 
quiet separation preferable to the scandal of a divorce 
suit. 

“My lawyer will pay you an allowance befitting the 
wife of a man whose income amounts to three hundred 
thousand francs. 

“Martial de Sairmeuse.” 

Blanche staggered beneath this terrible blow. She 
was indeed deserted— and deserted, as she supposed, for 
another. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “that creature! that creature! 

I will kill her !” 


V. 

CHAPTER XL. 


The twenty-four hours which Blanche had spent in 
measuring the extent of her terrible misfortune the duke 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Ill 


had spent in raving and swearing. He had not even 
thought of going to bed. After his fruitless search for 
his son he returned to the chateau, and began a con- 
tinuous tramp to and fro in the great hall. 

He was almost sinking from weariness when his son's 
letter was handed him. It was very brief. Martial did 
not vouchsafe any explanation ; he did not even mention 
the rupture between his wife and himself. 

“I cannot return to Sairmeuse," he wrote, “and yet, 
it is of the utmost importance that I should see you. 
You will, I trust, approve my determinations when I 
explain the reasons that have guided me in making them. 
Come to Montaignac, then ; the sooner the better. I am 
waiting for you.” 

Had he listened to the promptings of his impatience, 
the duke would have started at once. But how could he 
thus abandon the Marquis de Courtornieu, who had ac- 
cepted his hospitality, and especially Blanche, his son’s 
wife? He must, at least, see them, speak to them, and 
warn them of his intended departure. He attempted 
this in vain. Mme. Blanche had shut herself up in her 
own apartments, and remained deaf to all entreaties for 
admittance. Her father had been put to bed, and the 
physician who had been summoned to attend him, de- 
clared the marquis to be at death’s door. The duke 
was, therefore, obliged to resign himself to the prospect 
of another night of suspense, which was almost intoler- 
able to a character like his. 

“To-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some pretext 
to escape, without telling them that I am going to see 
Martial,” he thought. 

He was spared this trouble. The next morning, at 
about nine o’clock, while he was dressing, a servant 


112 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


came to inform him that M. de Courtorniea and his 
daughter were awaiting him in the drawing-room. 

Much surprised, he hastened down. When he entered 
tlie room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair, 
rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of Aunt Medea. 
Mme. Blanche came rapidly forward to meet the duke, 
as pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from 
her veins. 

“We are going, Monsieur le Due,” she said, coldly, 
“and we wish to make our adieux.” 

“What ! you are going? Will you not—” 

The young bride interrupted him by a sad gesture, and 
drawing Martial’s letter from her bosom, she handed it 
to M. de Sairmeuse, saying ; 

“Will you do me the favor to peruse this, monsieur?”' 

The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his aston- 
ishment was so intense that he could not even find an 
oath. 

“Incomprehensible!” he faltered; “incomprehen- 
sible!” 

“Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated the young wife, 
sadly, but without bitterness. “I was married yester- 
day ; to-day 1 am deserted. It would have been gener- 
ous to have reflected the evening before and not the 
next day. Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for 
having destroyed my life, for having made me the most 
miserable of creatures. I also forgive him for the su- 
preme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust 
he may be happy. Adieu, Monsieur le Due, we shall 
nev€5r meet again. Adieu!” 

She took her father’s arm, and they were about to re- 
tire, when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between 
them and the door. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


113 


“You shall not depart thus!” he exclaimed. “Twill 
not suffer it. Wait, at least, until I have seen Martial. 
Perhaps he is not as culpable as you suppose — ” 

“Enough !” interrupted the marquis; “enough! This 
is one of those outrages which can never be repaired. 
May your conscience forgive you as I myself forgive 
you. Farewell!” 

This was said so perfectly, with such entire harmony 
of intonation and gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was be- 
wildered. With an absolutely wonderstruck air he 
watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they 
had been gone some moments before he recovered him- 
self sufficiently to exclaim : 

“Old hypocrite ! does he believe me his dupe?” 

His dupe ! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his 
dupe, that his next thought was : 

“What is to follow this farce? He says that he par- 
dons us — that means that he has some crushing blow in 
store for us.” 

This conviction filled him with disquietude. He really 
felt imable to cope successfully with the perfidious mar- 
quis. 

“But Martial is a match for him!” he exclaimed. 
“Yes, I must see Martial at once.” 

So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand 
in harnessing the horses he had ordered, and when the 
carriage was ready, he announced his determination 
to drive himself. As he urged the horses furiously on 
he tried to reflect, but the most contradictory ideas 
seethed in his brain, and he lost all power to consider 
the situation calmly. 

He burst into Martial’s room like a tornado. 

“I think you must certainly have gone mad, marquis 1” 


114 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse you can 
offer. ’ ’ 

But Martial, who had been expecting this visit, had 
prepared himself for it. 

“Never, on the contrary, have I felt more calm and 
composed in mind,” he replied. “Allow me to ask you 
one question. Was it you who sent the soldiers to the 
rendezvous which Maurice d’Escorval had appointed?” 

“Marquis !” 

“Very well. Then it was another act of infamy on tlie 
part of the Marquis de Courtornieu. ” 

The duke made no reply. In spite of his faults and 
his vices, this haughty man possessed the characteristics 
of the old French nobility — fidelity to his word and un- 
doubted valor. He thought it perfectly natural, even 
necessary, that Martial should fight with Maurice; and 
he thought it a contemptible act to send armed soldiers 
to seize an honest and confiding opponent. 

“This is the second time,” pursued Martial, “that this 
scoundrel has attempted to bring dishonor upon our 
name ; and if I desire to convince people of the truth of 
this assertion, I must break off all connection with him 
and his daughter. I have done this. I do not regret it, 
since I married her only out of deference to your wishes 
and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and 
because all women, save one who can never be mine, 
are alike to me.” 

Such utterances were not at all calculated to reassure 
the duke. 

“This sentiment is very noble, no doubt,” said he; “but 
it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our 
house.” 

An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial’s lips. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


116 


“I believe, on the contrary, that I have saved them,” 
he replied. “It is useless for us to attempt to deceive 
ourselves ; this whole affair of the insurrection has been 
abominable, and you have good reason to bless the op- 
portunity of freeing yourself from the responsibility of 
it which this quarrel gives you. With a little address 
you can throw all the odium upon the Marquis de Cour- 
tornieu, and keep for yourself only the prestige of valu- 
able service rendered.” 

The duke’s face brightened. 

“Zounds, marquis!” he exclaimed; “that is a good 
idea ! In the future I shall be infinitely less afraid of 
I Courtornieu. ” 

1 Martial remained thoughtful. 

“It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu whom I fear,” 

I he murmured, “but his daughter — my wife.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 


r One must have lived in the country to know with what 

[ I 

inconceivable rapidity news fiies from mouth to mouth. 
Strange as it may seem, the news of the scene at the 
cihateau reached Father Poignot’s farmhouse that same 
\ evening. 

» It had not been three hours since Maurice, Jean Lache- 

n 

iieur and Bavois left the house, promising to recross the 
:|Crontier that same night. Abbe Midon had decided to 
^^y nothing to M. d’Escorval of his son’s return, and 
conceal Marie-Anne’s presence in the house. The 
^^aron’s condition was so critical that the merest trifle 
iniirht turn the scale. 


116 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


About ten o’clock the baron fell asleep and the abbe 
and Mine. d’Escorval went downstairs to talk with 
Marie-Anne. As they were sitting there Poignot’s eld- 
est son entered in a state of great excitement. After 
supper he had gone with some acquaintances to admire 
tlie splendors of the fete, and he now came rushing back 
to relate the strange events of the evening to his father’s 
guests. 

“It is inconceivable !” murmured the abbe. He knew 
but too well, and the others comprehended it likewise, 
that these strange events rendered their situation more 
perilous than ever. “I cannot understand how Maurice 
could commit such an act of folly, after what I had just 
said to him. The baron’s most cruel enemy has been his 
own son. We must wait until to-morrow before decid- 
ing upon anything.” 

The next day they heard of the meeting at the Reche. 
A peasant, who, from a distance, had witnessed the pre- 
liminaries of the duel which had not been fought, was 
able to give them the fullest details. He had seen the 
two adversaries take their places, then the soldiers run 
to the spot, and afterward pursue Maurice, Jean and 
Bavois. But he was sure that the soldiers had not over- 
taken them. He had met them five hours afterward, 
harassed and furious ; and the officer in charge of the 
expedition declared their failure to be the fault of the 
Marquis de Sairmeuse, who had detained them. 

That same day Father Poignot informed the abbe that 
the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu 
were at variance. It was the talk of the country. The 
marquis had returned to his chateau, accompanied by 
his daughter, and the duke had gone to Montaignac. The 
abbe’s anxiety on receiving this intelligence was so 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


117 


poignant that he could not conceal it from Baron 
d’Escorval. 

“You have heard something, my friend?” said the 
baron. 

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” 

“Some new danger threatens us?” 

“None, I swear it !” 

The priest’s protestations did not convince the baron. 

“Ohl do not deny it,” he exclaimed. “Night before 
last, when you entered my room after I awo^re, you were 
paler than death, and my wife had certainly been cry- 
' ing. What does all this mean?” 

Usually, when the cure did not wish to reply to the 
sick man’s questions, it was sufficient to tell him that 
conversation and excitement retarded his recovery ; but 
this time the baron was not so docile. 

“It will be very easy for you to restore my tranquil- 
lity,” he said. “Confess, now, that you are trembling 
lest they discover my retreat. This fear is torturing me 
also. Very well, swear to me that you will not allow 
them to take me alive, and then my mind will be at rest. ” 

“I cannot take such an oath as that,” said the cure, 
turning pale. 

“And why?” insisted M. d’Escorval. “If I am recap- 
tured, what will happen? They will nurse me, and then, 
as soon as I can stand upon my feet, they will shoot me 
down. Would it be a crime to save me from such a 
suffering? You are my best friend ; swear to render me 
this supreme service. Would you have me curse you for 
saving my life?” 

The abbe made no response ; but his eye, voluntarily 
or involuntarily, turned with a peculiar expression to 
the box of medicine standing upon the table near by. 


118 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Did he wish to be understood as saying: “I wUl do 
nothing; but you will find a poison there?” 

M. d’Escorval understood it in this way, for it was 
with an accent of gratitude that he murmured : 
“Thanks!” Now that he felt he was master of his 
life, he breathed more freely. From that moment his 
condition, so long desperate, began to improve. “I can 
defy all my enemies from this hour!” he said, with a 
gayety which certainly was not feigned. 

Day after day passed, and the abbe’s sinister appre- 
hensions were not realized; he, too, began to regain 
confidence. Instead of causing an increase of severity, 
Maurice’s and Jean Lacheneur’s frightful imprudence 
had been, as it were, the point of departure for a uni- 
versal indulgence. One might reasonably have supposed 
that the authorities of Montaignac had forgotten, and 
desired to have forgotten, if that were possible, Lache- 
neur’s conspiracy, and the abominable slaughter for 
which it had been made the pretext. 

They soon heard at the farm that Maurice and the 
brave corporal had succeeded in reaching Piedmont. 
No allusion was made to Jean Lacheneur, so it was sup- 
posed that he had not left the country ; but they had no 
reason to fear for his safety, since he was not upon the 
proscribed list. 

Later, it was rumored that the Marquis de Courtornieu 
was ill, and that Mme. Blanche did not leave his bedside. 
Soon afterward. Father Poignot, on returning from Mon- 
taignac, reported that the duke had just passed a week 
in Paris, and that he was now on his way home with one 
more decoration— another proof of royal favor— and that 
he had succeeded in obtaining an order for the release of 
all the conspirators who were now in prison. It was im- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


119 


possible to doubt this intelligence; for the Montaignac 
papers mentioned this fact, with all the circumstances 
on the following day. 

The abbe attributed this sudden and happy change en- 
tirely to the rupture between the duke and the marquis, 
and this was the universal opinion in the neighborhood. 
Even the retired ofiSlcers remarked: “The duke is de- 
cidedly better than he is supposed to be, and if he has 
been severe, it is only because he was influenced by that 
odious Marquis de Courtornieu.” 

Marie- Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret pre- 
sentiment told her that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who 
had shaken off his wonted apathy, and was working 
these changes and using and abusing his ascendency 
over the mind of his father. “And it is for your sake,” 
whispered an inward voice, “that Martial is thus work- 
ing. What does this careless egotist care for these ob- 
scure peasants, whose names he does not even know? Ii 
he protects them, it is only that he may have a right to 
protect you, and those whom you love !“ 

With these thoughts in her mind, she could not but 
feel her aversion to Martial diminish. Was not such 
conduct truly heroic in a man whose dazzling offers she 
had refused? Was there not real moral grandeur in the 
feeling that induced Martial to reveal a secret that might 
tuin the political fortunes of his house, rather than be 
suspected of an unworthy action? And still the thought 
of this grande passion which she had inspired in so truly 
great a man never once made her heart quicken its throb- 
bing. 

Alas I nothing was capable of touching her heart now ; 
Nothing seemed to reach her through the gloomy sadness 
<3>at enveloped her. She was but the ghost of the for- 


120 


MONSIEUR L.ECOQ. 


merly beautiful and radiant Marie- Anne. Her quick, 
alert tread had become slow and dragging; often she 
sat for whole days motionless in her chair, her eyes fixed 
upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by a spasm, while 
great tears rolled silently down her cheeks. Abbe Midon, 
who was greatly disquieted on her account, often at- 
tempted to question her. 

“You are suffering, my child,” he said, kindly. 
“What is the matter?” 

“I am not ill, monsieur.” 

“Why do you not confide in me? Am I not your 
friend? What do you fear?” 

She shook her head sadly, and replied: “I have noth- 
ing to confide.” 

She said this, and yet she was dying with sorrow and 
anguish. Faithful to the promise she had made Mau- 
rice, she had said nothing of her condition, or of the 
marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano. And 
she saw, with inexpressible terror, the approach of the 
moment when she could no longer keep her secret. Her 
agony was frightful ; but what could she do? Fly? But 
where should she go? And by going, would she not lose 
all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only 
hope that sustained her in this trying hour? She had 
almost determined on flight, when circumstances — provi- 
dentially, it seemed to her — came to her aid. 

Money was needed at the farm. The guests were un- 
able to obtain any without betraying their whereabouts, 
and Father Poignot’s little store was almost exhausted. 

Abbe Midon was wondering what they were to do, 
when Marie-Anne told him of the will which Chanloui- 
neau had made in her favor, and of the money concealed 
beneath the hearth-stone in the best chamber. 


MONcilETTR LECOQ. 


121 


“I might go to the Borderie at night,” suggested 
Marie- Anne, “enter the house, which is unoccupied, 
obtain the money and bring it here. I have a right to 
do so, have I not?” 

But the priest did not approve this step. “You might 
be seen,” said he, “and who knows— perhaps arrested. 
If you were questioned, what plausible explanation could 
you give?” 

“What shall I do, then?” 

“Act openly; you are not compromised. Make your, 
appearance in Sairmeuse to-morrow as if you had just 
returned from Piedmont; go to the notary, take pos- 
session of your property, and install yourself at the 
Borderie.” 

Marie -Anne shuddered. “Live in Chanlouineau’s 
house!” she faltered. “I— alone!” 

“Heaven will protect you, my dear child. I can see 
only advantages in your installation at the Borderie. It 
will be easy to communicate with you ; and with ordi- 
nary precautions there can be no danger. Before your 
departure we will decide upon a, place of rendezvous, 
and two or three times a week you can meet Father 
Poignot there. And, in the course of two or three 
months you can be still more useful to us. When people 
have become .accustomed to your residence at the Bor- 
derie, we will take the baron there. His convalescence 
will be much more rapid there than here in this cramped 
and narrow loft, where we are obliged to conceal him 
now, and where he is ?*eally suffering for light and air.” 

So it was decided that Father Poignot should accom- 
pany Marie- Anne to the frontier that same night ; that 
she would take the diligence that ran between Piedmont 
and Montaignac, passing through the village of Sair- 


122 


MONSIEUR LEGOQ. 


meuse. It was with the greatest care that the abbe 
dictated to Marie- Anne the story she was to tell of her 
sojourn in foreign lands. All that she said, and all her 
answers to questions, must tend to prove that Baron d’Es- 
corval was concealed near Turin. The plan was carried 
out in every particular ; and the next day, about eight 
o’clock, the people of Sairmeuse were greatly astonished 
to see Marie- Anne alight from the diligence. 

“Monsieur Lacheneur’s daughter has returned I” 

The words flew from lip to lip with marvelous rapid- 
ity, and soon all the inhabitants of the village were gath- 
ered at the doors and windows. They saw the poor girl 
pay the driver, and enter the inn, followed by a boy 
bearing a small trunk. 

In the city, curiosity has some shame ; it hides itself 
while it spies into the affairs of its neighbors ; but in the 
country it has no such scruples. When Marie-Anne 
emerged from the inn, she found a crowd awaiting her 
with open mouths and staring eyes. And more than 
twenty people, making all sorts of comments, followed 
her to the door of the notary. 

He was a man of importance, this notary, and he wel- 
comed Marie-Anne with all the deference due an heiress 
of an unencumbered property, worth from forty to fifty 
thousand francs. But, jealous of his renown for per- 
spicuity, he gave her clearly to understand that he, being 
a man of experience, had divined that love alone had 
dictated Chanlouineau’s last will and testament. 

Marie-Anne 's composure and resignation made him 
really angry. 

“You forget what brings me here,’’ she said, “you 
do m€)t tell me what I have to do I’’ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


123 


The notary, thus interrupted, made no further at- 
tempts at consolation. 

''Pester' he thought, “she is in a hurry to get posses- 
sion of her property— the avaricious creature!” Then, 
aloud: “The business can be terminated at once, for the 
justice of the peace is at liberty tc-day, and he can go 
with us to break the seals this afternoon.” 

So, before evening, all the legal requirements were 
complied with, and Marie-Anne was formally installed 
at the Borderie. She was alone in Chanlouineau’s house 
— alone ! Night came on, and a great terror seized her 
heart. It seemed to her that the doors were about to 
open,' that this man who had loved her so much would 
appear before her, and that she would hear his voice as 
she heard it for the last time in his grim prison cell. 

She fought against these foolish fears, lighted a lamp, 
and went through this house — now hers — in which every- 
thing spoke so forcibly of its former owner. Slowly she 
examined the different rooms on the lower floor, noting 
the recent repairs which had been made and the conven- 
iences which had been added, and at last she ascended 
to that room above which Chanlouineau had made the 
tabernacle of his passion. Here, everything was mag- 
nificent, far more so than his words had led her to sup- 
pose. The poor peasant, who made his breakfast off a 
crust and a bit of onion, had lavished a small fortune on 
the decorations of this apartment, designed as a sanctuary 
for his idol. 

“How he loved me!” murmured Marie-Anne, moved 
by that emotion, the bare thought of which had awak- 
ened the jealousy of Maurice. But she had neither the 
time nor the right to yield to her feelings. Father Poig- 
not was doubtless, even then, awaiting her at the ren- 


124 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


dezvous. She lifted the hearth-stone, and found the 
sum of money which Chanlouineau had named. 

The next morning, when he woke, the abbe received 
the money. 

Now Marie- Anne could breathe freely ; and this peace, 
after so many trials and agitations, seemed to her almost 
happiness. Faithful to the abbe's instructions, she lived 
alone ; but, by frequent visits, she accustomed the people 
of the neighborhood to her presence. 

Yes, she would have been almost happy, could she 
have had news of Maurice. What had become of him? 
Why did he give no sign of life? What would she not 
give in exchange for some word of counsel and of love 
from him? The time was fast approaching when she 
would require a confidant; and there was no one in 
whom she could confide. In this hour of extremity, 
when she really felt that her reason was failing her, she 
remembered the old physician at Vigano, who had been 
one of the witnesses to her marriage. “He would help 
me if I called upon him for aid,” she thought. She had 
no time to temporize or to reflect ; she wrote to him im- 
mediately, giving the letter in charge of a youth in the 
neighborhood. 

“The gentleman says you may rely upon him,” said 
the messenger, on his return. That very evening Marie- 
Anne heard some one rap at her door. It was the kind- 
hearted old man who had come to her relief. He re- 
mained at the Borderie nearly a fortnight. When he 
departed, one ' __g before daybreak, he took away 

with him, under his large cloak, an infant— a boy— 
whom he had sworn to cherish as his own child. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


125 


' CHAPTER XLII. ^ 

To quit Sairmeuse without any display of violence had 
caused Blanche an almost superhuman effort. The wild- 
est anger convulsed her soul at the very moment when, 
with an assumption of melancholy dignity, she murmured 
those words of forgiveness. Ah! had she obeyed the 
dictates of her resentment I But her indomitable vanity 
aroused within her the heroism of a gladiator dying in 
the arena, with a smile upon his lips. Falling, she in- 
tended to fall gracefully. 

“No one shall see me weep ; no one shall hear me com- 
plain,” she said to her despondent father ; ‘ ‘try to imitate 
me.” 

And on her return to the Chateau de Courtornieu she 
was a stoic. Her face, although pale, was as immobile 
as marble beneath the curious gaze of the servants. 

“I am to be called mademoiselle, as in the past,” she 
said, imperiously. “Any one forgetting this order will 
be dismissed !” 

A maid forgot, that very day, and uttered the pro- 
hibited word “madam.” The poor girl was instantly 
dismissed, in spite of her tears and protestations. All 
the servants were indignant. 

“Does she hope to make us forget that she is married, 
and that her husband has deserted her?” they queried. 

Alas ! she wished to forget it herself. She wished to 
annihilate all recollection of that fatal day whose sun 
had'seen her a maiden, a wife, a widow. 

For was she not really a widow? Only it was not 
death which had deprived her of her husband, but an 


126 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


odious rival — an infamous and perfidious creature, lost 
to all sense of shame. 

And yet, though she had been disdained, abandoned 
and repulsed, she was no longer free. She belonged to 
the man whose name she bore like a badge of servitude 
— the man who hated her, who fled from her. She was 
not yet twenty ; and this was the end of her youth, of 
her life, of her hopes, and even of her dreams. Society 
condemned her to solitude, while Martial was free to 
rove wheresoever fancy might lead him. 

Now she saw the disadvantage of isolatmg one’s self. 
She had not been without friends in her school-girl days ; 
but after leaving the convent she had alienated them by 
her haughtiness, on finding them not as high in rank, 
nor as rich as herself. She was now reduced to the 
irritating consolations of Aunt Medea, who was a worthy 
person, undoubtedly, but her tears flowed quite as freely 
for the loss of a cat as for the death of a relative. 

But Blanche bravely resolved that she would conceal 
her grief and despair in the recesses of her own heart. 
She drove about the country; she wore the prettiest 
dresses in her trousseau; she forced herself to appear 
gay and indifferent. 

But, on going to attend high mass in Sairmeuse, the 
following Sunday, she realized the futility of her efforts. 
People did not look at her haughtily, or even curiously ; 
but they turned away their heads to laugh, and she 
overheard remarks on the maiden-widow which pierced 
her very soul. They mocked her ; they ridiculed her ! 

“Oh 1 I will have my revenge !’’ she muttered. 

But she had not waited for these insults before think- 
ing of vengeance ; and she had found her father quite 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


127 


ready to assist her in her plans. For the first time the 
father and the daughter were in accord. 

“The Duke de Sairmeuse shall learn what it costs to 
aid in the escape of a prisoner and to insult a man like 
me ! Fortune, favor, position — he shall lose all ! I hope 
to see him ruined and dishonored at my feet. You shall 
see that day ! you shall see that day !“ said the marquis 
vehemently. But, unfortunately for him and his plans, 
he was extremely ill for three days after the scene at 
Sairmeuse ; then he wasted three days more in compos- 
ing and writing a report which was intended to crush 
his former ally. 

This delay ruined him, since it gave Martial time to 
perfect his plans, and to send the Duke de Sairmeuse to 
Paris skillfully indoctrinated. And what did the duke 
say to the king, who accorded him such a gracious recep- 
tion ? He undoubtedly pronounced the first reports false, 
reduced the Montaignac revolution to its proper propor- 
tions, represented Lacheneur as a fool and his followers 
as inoffensive idiots. Perhaps he led the king to suppose 
that the Marquis de Courtornieu might have provoked 
the outbreak by undue severity. He had served under 
Napoleon, and possibly had thought it necessary to make 
a display of his zeal. There have been such cases. So 
far as he himself was concerned, he deeply deplored the 
mistakes into which he had been led by the ambitious 
marquis, upon whom he cast most of the responsibility 
for the blood which had been shed. 

The result of all this was, that when the Marquis de 
Courtornieu’s report reached Paris, it was answered by 
a decree depriving him of the office of grand prevot. 

This unexpected blow crushed him. To think that a 
man as shrewd, as subtle-minded, as quick-witted and 


128 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


adroit as himself — a man who had passed through so 
many troubled epochs, who had served with the same 
obsequious countenance all the masters who would ac- 
cept his services — to think that such a man should have 
been thus duped and betrayed ! 

“It must be that old imbecile, the Duke de Sairmeuse, 
who has maneuvered so skillfully, and with so much 
address,” he said. “But who advised him? I cannot 
imagine who it could have been.” 

Who it was, Mme. Blanche knew only too well. She 
recognized Martial’s hand in all this, as Marie- Anne had 
done. 

“Ah ! I was not deceived in him,” she thought ; “he is 
the great diplomatist I believed him to be. At his age to 
outwit my father, an old politician of such experience 
and acknowledged astuteness ! And he does all this to 
please Marie- Anne,” she continued, frantic with rage. 
“It is the first step toward obtaining pardon for the 
friends of that vile creature. She has unbounded in- 
fluence over him, and so long as she lives there is no 
hope for me. But, patience.” 

She was patient, realizing that he who wishes to surely 
attain his revenge must wait, dissimulate, prepare an’ 
opportunity, but not force it. What her revenge should 
be she had not yet decided ; but she already had her eye 
upon a man whom she believed would be a willing in- 
strument in her hands, and capable of doing anything 
for money. 

But how had such a man chanced to cross the path of 
Mme. Blanche? How did it happen that she was cog- 
nizant of the existence of such a person? It was the re- 
sult of one of those simple combinations of circumstances 
which go by the name of chance. Burdened with re- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


129 


morse, despised and jeered at, and stoned whenever he 
showed himself upon the street, and horror-stricken 
whenever he thought of the terrible threats of Balstain, 
the Piedmontese inn-keeper, Chupia left Montaignac and 
came to beg an asylum in the Chateau de Sairmeuse. 

In his ignorance, he thought that the grand seigneur 
who had employed him, and who had profited by his 
treason,.owed him, over and above the promised reward, 
aid and protection. But the servants shunned him. They 
would not allow him a seat at the kitchen table, nor 
would the grooms allow him to sleep in the stables. They 
threw him a bone, as they would have thrown it to a 
dog ; and he slept where he could. He bore all this un- 
complainingly, deeming himself fortunate in being able 
to purchase comparative safety at such a price. 

But when the duke returned from Paris with a policy 
of forgetfulness and conciliation in his pocket, he would 
no longer tolerate the presence of this man, who was the 
object of universal execration. He ordered the dismissal 
of Chupin. 

The latter resisted, swearing that he would not leave 
Sairmeuse unless he was forcibly expelled, or unless he 
received the order from the lips of the duke himself. 
This obstinate resistance was reported to the duke. It 
made him hesitate; but the necessity of the moment, 
and a word from Martial, decided him. He sent for 
Chapin and told him that he must not visit Sairmeuse 
again, on any pretext whatever, softening the harshness 
of expulsion, however, by the offer of a small sum of 
money. 

But Chupin sullenly refused the money, gathered his 
belongings together, and departed, shaking his clinched 
fist at the chateau, and vowing vengeance on the Sair- 


130 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


meuse family. Then he went to his old home, where his 
wife and his two boys still lived. He seldom left the 
house, and then only to satisfy his passion for hunting. 
At such times, instead of hiding and surrounding him- 
self with every precaution, as he had done, before shoot- 
ing a squirrel or a few partridges, in former times, he 
went boldly to the Sairmeuse or the Courtornieu forests, 
shot his game, and brought it home openly, almost de- 
fiantly. The rest of the time he spent in a state of ijemi- 
intoxication, for he drank constantly, and more and 
more immoderately. When he had taken more than 
usual, his wife and his sons generally attempted to ob- 
tain money from him, and if persuasions failed, they 
resorted to blows. For he had never given tliem the 
reward of his treason. What had he done with the 
twenty thousand francs in gold which had been paid 
him? No one knew. His sons believed he had buried 
it somewhere ; but they tried in vain to wrest his secret 
from him. 

All the people in the neighborhood were aware of this 
state of affairs, and regarded it as a just punishment for 
the traitor. Mme. Blanche overheard one of the gar- 
deners telling the story to two of his assistants. 

“Ah I the man is an old scoundrel,” he said, his face 
crimson with indignation. “He should be in the galleys 
and not at large among respectable people.” 

“He is a man who would serve your purpose,” the 
voice of hatred whispered in Blanche’s ear. 

“But how can I find an opportunity to confer with 
him?” she wondered. Mme. Blanche was too prudent 
to think of hazarding a visit to his house, but she remem- 
bered that he hunted occasionally in the Courtornieu 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


131 


woods, and that it might be possible for her to meet him 
there. 

“It will only require a little perseverance, and a few 
long walks,” she said to herself. 

But it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperon, 
two long weeks of almost continual walking. 

“Another freak !” groaned the poor relative, overcome 
with fatigue; “my niece is certainly crazy !” 

But one lovely afternoon in May, Blanche discovered 
what she sought. It was in a sequestered spot near the 
lake. Chupin was tramping sullenly along with his gun 
in his hand, glancing suspiciously on every side ! Not 
that he feared .the game-keeper, or a verbal 'process, but 
wherever he went he fancied he saw Balstain walking 
in his shadow, with that terrible knife in his hand. 

Seeing Mme. Blanche, he tried to hide himself in the 
forest, but she prevented it by calling : “Father Chupin !” 

He hesitated for a moment, then he paused, dropped 
his gun, and waited. 

Aunt Medea was pale with fright. “Blessed Jesus !” 
she murmured, pressing her niece’s arm; “why do you 
call that terrible man?” 

“I wish to speak with him.” 

“What! Blanche, do you dare—” 

“I must!” 

“No, I cannot allow it. I must not — ” 

“There, that is enough !” said Blanche, with one of 
those imperious glances that deprive a dependent of all 
strength and courage; “quite enough!” Then, in gen- 
tler tones: “I must talk with this man,” she added. 
“You, Aunt Medea, will remain at a little distance. 
Keep a close watch on every side, and if you see any 
one approaching, call me, whoever it may be.” 


132 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Aunt Medea, submissive as she was ever wont to be, 
obeyed; and Mme. Blanche advanced toward the old 
poacher, who stood as motionless as the trunks of the 
giant trees around him. 

“Well, my good Father Chupin, what sort of sport 
have you had to-day?” she began, when she was a few 
steps from him. 

“What do you want with me?” growled Chupin ; “for 
you do want something, or you would not trouble your- 
self about such as I.” 

It requirecT all Blanche's determination to repres^ 
gesture of fright and of disgust; but, in a resolute tone, 
she replied : 

“Yes, it is true that I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“Ah, ha! I supposed so.” 

“A mere trifle, which will cost you no trouble, and for 
which you shall be well paid.” 

She said this so carelessly that one would really have 
supposed the service was unimportant ; but, cleverly as 
she played her part, Chupin was not deceived. 

“No one asks trifling services of a man like me,” he 
said, coarsely. “Since I have served the good cause at 
the peril of my life, people seem to suppose that they 
have a right to come to me with their money in their 
hands, when they desire any dirty work done. It is true 
that I was well paid for that other job ; but I would like 
to melt all the gold and pour it down the throat of those 
who gave it to me. Ah ! I know what it costs the hum- 
ble to listen to the words of the great ! Go your way ; 
and if you have any wickedness in your head, do it your- 
self 1” 

He shouldered his gun, and was moving away, when 
Mme. Blanche said, coldly : 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


133 


“It was because I knew your wrongs that I stopped 
you; I thought you would be glad to serve me, because 
I hate the Sairmeuse.” 

These words excited the interest of the old poacher, 
and he paused. ^ 

“I know very well that you hate the Sairmeuse, now 
—but — ” 

“But what?” 

“In less than a month you will be reconciled. And 
you will pay the expenses of the war, and of the recon- 
ciliation? That old wretch, Chupin — ” 

“We shall never be reconciled !” 

Hum ! ” he growled , after deliberating awhile. ‘ ‘And 
if I should aid you, what compensation will you give 
me?” 

“I will give you whatever you desire — money, land, 
a house — ” 

“Many thanks. I desire something quite different.” 

“What? Name your conditions !” 

Chupin reflected a moment, then he replied : 

“This is what I desire. I have enemies — I do not even 
feel safe in my own house. My sons abuse me when I 
have been drinking ; my wife is quite capable of poison- 
ing my wine ; I tremble for my life and for my money. 
I cannot endure this existence much longer. Promise 
me an asylum in the Chateau de Courtornieu, and I am 
yours. In your house I shall be safe. But let it be un- 
derstood, I will not be ill-treated by the servants, as I 
was at Sairmeuse.” 

“It shall be as you desire.” 

“Swear it by your hope of heaven !” 

“I swear !” 

There was such an evident sincerity in her accent that 


134 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Chupin was reassured. He leaned toward her, and said, 
in a low voice : “Now, tell me your business.” 

His small gray eyes glittered with a demoniac light ; 
his thin lips were tightly drawn over his sharp teeth ; 
he was evidently expecting some proposition to murder, 
and he was ready. His attitude showed this so plainly 
that Blanche shuddered. 

“Really, what I ask of you is almost nothing,” she 
replied. “I only wish you to watch the Marquis de 
Sairmeuse.” 

“Your husband?” 

“Yes; my husband. ■ I wish to know what he does, 
where he goes, and what persons, he sees. I wish to 
know how each moment of his time is spent.” 

“What! seriously, frankly, is this all that you desire 
of me?” Chupin asked. 

“For the present, yes. My plans are not yet decided. 
It depends upon circumstances what action I shall take.” 

“You can rely upon me,” he responded ; “but I must 
have a little time.” 

“Yes; I understand. To-day is Saturday; will you 
be ready to report on Thursday?” 

“In five days? Yes, probably.” 

In that case, meet me here on Thursday, at this same 
hour.” 

A cry from Aunt Medea interrupted them. 

“Some one is coming!” Mme. Blanche exclaimed. 
“Quick ! we must not be seen together. Conceal your- 
self!” 

With a bound, the old poacher disappeared in the 
forest. 

A servant had approached Aunt Medea and was speak- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


135 


ing to her with great animation. Blanche hastened tow- 
ard them. 

“Ah ! mademoiselle,” exclaimed the servant, “we have 
been seeking you everywhere for three hours. Your 
father. Monsieur le Marquis — mon Dieii! what a mis- 
fortune ! A physician has been summoned I” 

“Is my father dead?” 

“No, mademoiselle, no; but — how can I tell you. 
When the marquis went out this morning his actions 
were very strange, and — and — when he returned—” 

As he spoke, the servant tapped bis forehead with the 
end of his forefinger. 

“You imderstand me, mademoiselle — when he re- 
turned, reason had fied!” 

Without waiting for,her terrified aunt, Blanche darted 
in the direction of the chateau. 

“How is the marquis?” she inquired, of the first ser- 
vant whom she met. 

“He is in his room on the bed ; he is more quiet, now.” 

She had already reached his room. He was seated 
upon the bed, and two servants were watching his every 
movement. His face was livid, and a white foam had 
gathered upon his lips. Still, he recognized his daughter. 

“Here you are !” said he. “I was waiting for you.” 

She remained upon the threshold, quite overcome, al- 
though she was neither tender-hearted nor impression- 
able. 

“My father!” she faltered. “Good Heavens! what 
has happened?” 

He uttered a discordant laugh. 

“Ah, ha !” he exclaimed, “I met him. Do you doubt 
me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him 
well ; have I not seen his cursed face before my eyes for 


136 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


more than a month?— for it never leaves me. I saw 
him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You 
know the place ; it is always dark there, on account of 
the trees. I was returning slowly, thinking of him, 
when suddenly he sprang up before me, extending his 
arms, as if to bar my passage. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘you 
must come and join me. ’ He was armed with a gun ; 
he fired — ” 

The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned sufficient 
courage to approach him. For more than a moment she 
fastened upon him that cold and persistent look that is 
said to exercise such power over those who have lost 
their reason; then, shaking him energetically by the 
arm, she said, almost rou^ly : 

“Control yourself, father! You are the victim of a 
hallucination. It is impossible that you have seen — the 
man of whom you speak. ” 

Who it was that M. de Courtornieu supposed he had 
seen, Blanche knew only too well ; but she dared not, 
could not, utter the name. But the marquis had resumed 
his incoherent narrative. 

“Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was cer- 
tainly Lacheneur who confronted me. I am sure of it, 
and the proof is, that he reminded me of a circumstance 
which occurred in my youth, and which was known 
only to him and me. It happened during the Reign of 
Terror. He was all-powerful in Montaignac ; and I was 
accused of being in correspondence with the emigres. 
My property had been confiscated ; and every moment I 
was expecting to feel the hand of the executioner upon 
my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me into his house. 
He concealed me ; he furnished me with a passport ; he 
saved my money, and he saved my head— I sentenced 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


137 


him to death. That is the reason why I have seen him 
again. I must rejoin him ; he told me so — I am a dying 
man!’' 

He fsll back upon his pillows, pulled the sheet up over 
his face, and lying there, rigid and motionless, one might 
readily have supposed it was a corpse whose outlines 
could be vaguely discerned through the bed-coverings. 

Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened 
glances. Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. 
It seemed incomprehensible to them, under such circum- 
stances, that the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur. 
Mme. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. 
Turning to her father’s valet, she said: “It is not pos- 
sible that any one has attempted to injure my father?” 

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle; a little more and 
he would have been killed I” 

“How do you know this?” 

‘ ‘In undressing the marquis, I noticed that he had re- 
ceived a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, 
and in it I found three holes, which could only have been 
made by bullets.” 

The worthy valet de chambre was certainly more agi- 
tated than the daughter. 

“Then some one must have attempted to assassinate 
my father,” she murmured, “and this attack of delirium 
has been brought on by fright. How can we find out 
who the would-be murderer was?” 

The servant shook his head. “I suspect that old 
poacher, who is always prowling around, is the guilty 
man— Chupin.” 

“No, it could not have been he.” 

“Ah ! I am almost sure of it. There is no one else in 
the neighborhood capable of such an evil deed.” 


138 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Mme. Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring 
Chupin innocent. Nothing in the world would have in- 
duced her to admit that she had met him, talked with 
him for more than half an hour, and just parted from 
him. She was silent. 

In a few moments the physician arrived. He removed 
the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face — he was al- 
most compelled to use force to do it— examined the pa- 
tient with evident anxiety, then ordered mustard plas- 
ters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, 
for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once. 
All was bustle and confusion. Wlien the physician left 
the sick-room, Mme. Blanche followed him. 

“Well, doctor?” she said, with a questioning look. 

With considerable hesitation, he replied: “People 
sometimes recover from such attacks.” 

It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father 
recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to 
recover her lost prestige was now afforded her. If she 
desired to turn public opinion against Martial, she must 
improvise for herself an entirely different reputation. If 
she could erect a pedestal upon which she could pose as 
a patient victim, her satisfaction would be intense. Such 
an occasion now offered itself, and she seized it at once. 

Never did a devoted daughter lavish more touching 
and delicate attentions upon a sick father. It was im^ 
possible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment. 
It was only with great difficulty that they could per- 
suade her to sleep for a couple of hours, in an arm-chair 
in the sick-room. But while she was playing the role of 
Sister of Charity which she had imposed upon herself, 
her thoughts followed Chupin. What was he doing in 
Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had prom- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


139 


ised? How slow the day appointed for the meeting was 
in coming! It came. at last, however, and after intrust- 
ing her father to the care of Aunt Medea, Blanche made 
her escape. The old poacher was awaiting her at the 
appointed place. 

“Speak!” said Mme. Blanche. 

“I would do so willingly, only I have nothing to tell 
you.” 

“What ! you have not watched the marquis?” 

“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him like 
his own shadow. But what would you have me say to 
you? Since the duke left for Paris, your husband has 
charge of everything. Ah! you would not recognize 
him ! He is always busy now.- He is up at cock-crow ; 
and he goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters 
all the morning. In the afternoon he receives all who 
call upon him. The retired officers are hand and glove 
with him. He has reinstated five or six of them, and he 
has granted pensions to two others. He seldom goes 
out, and never in the evening.” 

He paused, and for more than a minute Blanche was 
silent. She was confused and agitated by the question 
that rose to her lips. What humiliation ! But she con- 
quered her embarrassment, -and turning away her head 
to hide her crimson face, she said : 

“But he certainly has a mistress?” 

Chupin burst into a noisy laugh. 

“Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an 
audacious familiarity that made Blanche shudder. “You 
mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, do you not? 
that stuck-up minx, Marie- Anne?” 

Blanche felt that denial was useless. “Yes,” she an- 
wered ; “it is Marie- Anne that I mean. ” 


i40 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Ah, well ! she has been neither seen nor heard from. 
tSlie must have fled with another of her lovers— Maurice 
d’Escorval.” 

“You are mistaken.” 

“Oh! not at all. Of all the Lacheneurs, only Jean 
remains, and he lives like the vagabond that he is, by 
poaching and stealing. Day and night he rambles 
through the woods with his gun on his shoulder. He 
is frightful to look upon, a perfect skeleton, and his eyes 
glitter like live coals. If he ever meets me, my account 
will be settled then and there.” 

Blanche turned pale. It was Jean Lacheneur who had 
fired at the marquis, then. She did not doubt it in the 
least. 

“Very well !” said she, “I, myself, am sure that Marie- 
Anne is in the neighborhood, concealed in Montaignac, 
probably. I must know. Endeavor to discover her re- 
treat before Monday, when I will meet you here again. ’ ’ 

“I will try,” Chupin answered. 

He did, indeed, try ; he exerted all his energy and cun- 
ning, but in vain. 

He was fettered by the precautions which he took 
against Balstain, and against Jean Lacheneur. On the 
other hand, no one in the neighborhood would have con- 
sented to give him the least information. 

“Still no news!” he said to Mme. Blanche at each 
interview. 

But she would not yield. Jealousy will not yield even 
to evidence. Blanche had declared that Marie- Anne had 
taken her husband from her, that Martial and Marie- 
Anne loved each other, hence it must be so, all proofs to 
the contrary notwithstanding. But, one morning, she 
found her spy jubilant. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


141 


“Good news I” he cried, as soon as he saw her; “we 
have caught the minx, at last !“ 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

It was the second day after Marie- Anne’s installation 
ctC the Borderie. That event was the general topic of 
conversation ; and Chanlouineau’s will was the subject 
of countless comments. 

“Here is Monsieur Lacheneur’s daughter with an in-, 
come of more than two thousand francs, without count- 
ing the house,” said the old people, gravely. 

“An honest girl would have had no such luck as that !” 
muttered the unattractive maidens who had not been 
fortunate enough to secure husbands. 

This was the great news which Chupin brought to 
Mme. Blanche. She listened to it, trembling with anger, 
her hands so convulsively clinched that the nails pene- 
trated the flesh. 

“What audacity!” she exclaimed. “What impu- 
dence!” 

The old poacher seemed to be of the same opinion. 

“If each of her lovers gives her as much, she will bo 
richer than a queen. She will have enough to buy both 
Sairmeuse and Courtornieu, if she choose,” he remarked 
maliciously. If he had desired to augment the rage of 
Mme. Blanche, he had good reason to be satisfied. 

“And this is the woman who has alienated Martial’s 
heart from me!” she exclaimed. “It is for this miser- 
able wretch that he abandons me !” 

The unworthiness of the unfortunate girl, whom she 


142 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


regarded as her rival, incensed her to such a degree that 
she entirely forgot Chupin’s presence. She made no at- 
tempt to restrain herself, or to hide the secret of her 
sufferings. 

“Are you sure that what you tell me is true?’^ she 
asked. 

“As sure as that you stand there V* 

“Who told you all this?” 

“No one — I have eyes. I went to the Borderie yester- 
day to see for myself, and all .the shutters were open. 
Marie- Anne was leaning out of a window. She does not 
even wear mourning, the heartless hussy !” 

Poor Marie-Anne, indeed, had no dress but the one 
which Mine. d’Escorval had given her on the night of 
the insurrection, when she laid aside her masculine 
habiliments. 

Chupin wished to irritate Mme. Blanche still more by 
other malicious remarks, but she checked him by a 
gesture. 

“So you know the way to the Borderie?” she inquired. 

“Perfectl3\” 

“Where is it?” 

“Opposite the mills of the Oiselle, near the river, 
about a league and a half from here.” 

“That is true. I remember now. Were j^ou ever in 
the house?” 

“More than a hundred times while Chanlouineau was 
living.'” 

“Explain the topography of the dwelling.” 

Chupin’s eyes dilated to their widest extent. 

“What do you wish?” he asked, not understanding in 
the least what was required of him. 

“I mean, explain how the house is constructed?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


148 


“Ah! now I understand. The house is built upon an 
open space a little distance from the road. Before it i.^ 
a small garden, and behind it an orchard inclosed by a 
hedge. Back of the orchard, to the right, are the vine* 
yards ; but on the left side is a small grove that shades 
a spring.” He paused suddenly, and with a knowing 
wink, inquired : “But what use do you expect to make 
of all this information?” 

“What does that matter to you? How is the interior 
arranged?” 

“There are three large square rooms on the ground 
floor, besides the kitchen and a small dark room.” 

“Now, what is on the floor above?” 

“I have never been up there.” 

“How are the rooms furnished which you have 
visited?” 

“Like those in any peasant’s house.” 

Certainly no one was aware of the existence of the 
luxurious apartment which Chanlouineau had intended 
for Marie-Anne. He had never spoken of it, and had 
even taken the greatest precautions to prevent any one 
from seeing him transport the furniture. 

“How many doors are there?” inquired Blanche. 

‘ ‘Three ; one opening into the garden, another into the 
orchard, another communicating with the stables. The 
staircase leading to the floor above is in the middle 
room.” 

“And is Marie-Anne alone at the Borderie?” 
g: “Entirely alone at present ; but I suppose it will not be) 
long before her brigand of a brother joins her.” 

Mme. Blanche fell into a reverie so deep and so pro- 
longed that Chupin at last became impatient. He ven* 


144 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


tured to touch her upon the arm, and, in a wily voice, he 
said: “Well, what shall we decide?” 

Blanche shuddered like a wounded man on hearing the 
terrible click of the surgeon’s instruments. 

“My mind is not yet made up,” she replied. “I must 
reflect — I will see.” And, remarking the old poacher’s 
discontented face, she said, vehemently: “I will do 
nothing lightly. Do not lose sight of Martial. If he 
goes to the Borderie, and he will go there, I must be in- 
formed of it. If he writes, and he will write, try to pro- 
cure one of his letters. I must see you every other day. 
Do not rest ! Strive to deserve the good place I am re- 
serving to you at Courtornieu. Go !” 

He departed without a word, but also without attempt- 
ing to conceal his disappointment and chagrin. 

“It serves you right, for listening to a silly, affected 
woman,” he growled. “She fills the air with her rav- 
ings ; she wishes to kill everybody, to burn and destroy 
everything. She only asks for an opportunity. The 
occasion presents itself, and her heart fails ^ her. She 
draws back — she is afraid !” 

Chupin did Mme. Blanche great injustice. The move- 
ment of horror which he had observed was the instinc- 
tive revolt of the flesh and not a faltering of her inflexi- 
ble will. Her reflections were not of a nature to appease 
her rancor. Whatever Chupin and all Sairmeuse might 
say to the contrary, Blanche regarded this story of Marie - 
Anne’s travels as a ridiculous fable. In her opinion, 
Marie- Anne had simply emerged from the retreat where 
Martial had deemed it prudent to conceal her. But why 
this sudden reappearance? The vindictive woman was 
ready to swear that it was out of mere bravado, and in- 
tended only as an insult to her. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


145 


“And I will have my revenge!” she thought. “1 
Would tear my heart out, if it were capable of cowardly 
weakness under such provocation !” 

The voice of conscience was unheard in this tumult of 
passion. Her sufferings, and Jean Lacheneur’s attempt 
upon her father’s life, seemed to justify the most ex- 
treme measures. 

She had plenty of time now to brood over her wrongs, 
and to concoct schemes of vengeance. Her father no 
longer required her care. He had passed from the 
frenzied ravings of insanity and delirium to the stupor 
of idiocy. The physician declared his patient cured. 

Cured ! The body was cured, perhaps, but 'reason had 
succumbed. All traces of intelligence had disappeared 
from this once mobile face, so ready to assume any ex- 
pression which the most consummate hypocrisy required. 

There was no longer a sparkle in the eye which had 
formerly gleamed with cunning, and the lower lip hung 
with a terrible expression of stupidity. 

And there was no hope of any improvement. A single 
passion, the table, took the place of all the passions which 
had formerly swayed the life of this ambitious man. The 
marquis, who had always been temperate in his habits, 
now ate and drank with the most disgusting voracity, 
and he was becoming immensely corpulent. A soulleSuS 
body, he wandered about the chateau and its surround- 
ings without projects, without aim. Self-consciousness, 
all thought of dignity, knowledge of good and evil, 
memory— he had lost all these. Even the instinct of 
self-preservation, the last which dies within us, had de- 
parted, and he had to be watched like a child. 

Often, as the marquis roamed about the large gardens, 
his daughter regarded him from her window with a 


146 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


strange terror in her heart. But this warning of Provi- 
dence only increased her desire for revenge. 

**Who would not prefer death to such a misfortune?” 
she murmured. “Ah I Jean Lacheneur’s revenge is far 
more terrible than it would have been had his bullet 
pierced my father’s heart. It is a revenge like this that 
I desire I It is due me ; I will have it I” 

i^he saw Chupin every two or three days ; sometimes 
going to the place of meeting alone, sometimes accom- 
panied by Aunt Medea. The old poacher came punc- 
tually, although he was beginning to tire of his task. 

“I am risking a great deal,” he growled. “I supposed 
that Jean Lacheneur would go and live at the Borderie 
with his sister. Then I should be safe. But no; the 
brigand continues to prowl around with his gun under 
his arm, and to sleep in the woods at night. What game 
is he hunting? Father Chupin, of course. On the other 
hand, I know that my rascally inn-keeper over there 
has abandoned his inn and mysteriously disappeared. 
Where is he? Hidden behind one of these trees, perhaps, 
deciding in which portion of my body he shall plunge 
his knife.” 

What irritated the old poacher most of all was, that 
after two months of surveillance, he had arrived at the 
conclusion that, whatever might have been the relations 
existing between Martial and Marie- Anne in the past, 
all was now over between them. But Blanche would 
not admit this. 

“Say that they are more cunning than you. Father 
Chupin.” 

“Cunning— and how? Since I have been watching 
the marquis, he has not once passed outside the fortifica- 
tions. On tlie other hand, the postman at Sairmeuse, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


147 


who has been adroitly questioned by my wife, declares 
that he has not taken a single letter to the Borderie.” 

Had it not been for the hope of a safe and pleasant 
retreat at Courtornieu, Chupin would have abandoned 
his task; and, in spite of the tempting rewards that 
were promised him, he had relaxed his surveillance. If 
he still came to the rendezvous, it was only because he 
had fallen into the habit of claiming some money for his 
expenses each time. And when Mme. Blanche demanded 
an account of everything that Martial had done, he told 
her anything that came into his head. 

Mme. Blanche soon discovered this. One day, early 
in September, she interrupted him as he began the 
same old story, and, looking liim steadfastly in the eye, 
she said : 

“Either you are betraying me, or you are a fool. Yes- 
terday Martial and Marie- Anne spent a quarter of an 
hour together at the Croix d’Arcy.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

The old physician of Vigano, who had come to Marie- 
Anne’s aid, was an honorable man. His intellect was 
of a superior order, and his heart was equal to his in- 
telligence. He knew life ; he had loved and suffered, 
and he possessed two sublime virtues— forbearance and 
charity. 

It was easy for such a man to read Marie- Anne’s char- 
acter ; and while he was at the Borderie he endeavored 
in every possible way to reassure her, and to restore the 
self-respect of the unfortunate girl who had confided in 
him. Had he succeeded? He certainly hoped so. 


148 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


But when he departed, and Marie- Anne was again left 
in solitude, she could not overcome the feeling of de- 
spondency that stole over her. Many, in her situation, 
would have regained their serenity of mind, and even 
rejoiced. Had she not succeeded in concealing her 
fault? Who suspected it, except, perhaps, the abbe? 
Hence, Marie- Anne had nothing to fear and everything 
to hope. 

But this conviction did not appease her sorrow. Hers 
was one of those pure and proud natures that are more 
sensitive to the whisperings of conscience than to the 
clamors of the world. She had been accused of having 
three lovers — Chanlouineau, Martial and Maurice. The 
calumny had not moved her. What tortured her was 
what these people did not know— the truth. Nor was 
this all. The sublime instinct of maternity had been 
awakened within her. When she saw the physician 
depart, bearing her child, she felt as if soul and body 
were being rent asunder. When could she hope to see 
again this little son who was doubly dear to her by rea- 
son of the very sorrow and anguish he had cost her? 
The tears gushed to her eyes when she thought that his 
first smile would not be for her. 

Ah I had it not been for her promise to Maurice, she 
would imhesitatingly have braved public opinion, and 
kept her precious child. Her brave and honest nature 
could have endured any humiliation far better than the 
continual lie she was forced to live. But she had prom- 
ised ; Maurice was her husband, and reason told her that 
for his sake she must preserve not her honor, alas ! but 
the semblance of honor. 

And when she thought of her brother, her blood froze 
in her veins. Having learned that Jean was roving 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


149 


about the country, she sent for him ; but it was not 
without much persuasion that he consented to come to 
the Borderie. 

It was easy to explain Chupin’s terror when one saw 
Jean Lacheneur. His clothing was literally in tatters* 
his face wore an expression of ferocious despair, and a 
fierce, unextinguishable hatred burned in his eyes. 
When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled in 
horror. She did not recognize him until he spoke. 

“It is I, sister,” he said, gloomily. 

“You — my poor Jean ! you 1” 

He survej’-ed himself from head to foot, and said, 
with a sneering laugh : “Really, I should not like to 
meet myself at dusk in the forest.” 

Marie-Anne shuddered. She fancied that a threat 
lurked beneath these ironical words, beneath this mock- 
ery of himself. 

“What a life yours must be, my poor brother I Why 
did you not come sooner? Now, I have you here, I shall 
not let you go. You will not desert me. 1 need protec- 
tion and love so much. You will remain with me?” 

“It is impossible, Marie-Anne.” 

“And why?” 

A fleeting crimson suffused Jean Lacheneur’s cheek ; 
he hesitated for a moment, then ; 

“Because I have a right to dispose of my own life, but 
not of yours,” he replied. “We can no longer be any- 
thing to each other. 1 deny you to-day, that you may 
be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, I renounce you, 
who are my all— the only person on earth whom I love. 
Your most cruel enemies have not calumniated you 
more foully than I — ” He paused an instant, then he 
added: “I have said openly, before numerous witnesses. 


150 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


that I would never set foot in a house that had been 
given you by Chanloitineau !” 

“Jean I you, my brother, said that?’* 

“I said it. It must be supposed that there is a deadly 
feud between us. This must be, in order that neither 
you nor Maurice d’Escorval can be accused of complicity 
in any deed of mine.” 

Marie- Anne stood as if petrified. 

“He is mad I” she murmured. 

“Do I really have that appearance?” 

She shook off the stupor that paralyzed her, and seiz- 
ing her brother’s hands: “What do you intend to do?” 
she exclaimed. “What do you intend to do? Tell me; 

I will know !” 

“Nothing! let me alone. ” 

“Jean!” 

“Let me alone !” he said, roughly, disengaging himself. 

A horrible presentiment crossed Marie-Anne’s mind. 
She stepped back, and solemnly, entreatingly, she said : 

“Take care ! take care, my brother ! It is not well to 
tamper with these matters. Leave to God’s justice the 
task of punishing those who have wronged us.” 

But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert 
him from his purpose. He uttered a hoarse, discordant 
laugh, then striking his gun heavily with his hand he 
exclaimed : “Here is justice !” 

Appalled and distressed beyond measure, Marie- Anne 
sank into a chair. She discerned in her brother’s mind 
the same fixed, fatal idea which had lured her father 
on to destruction — the idea for which he had sacrificed 
all— family, friends, fortune, the present and the future 
—even his daughter’s honor— the idea which had caused 
so much blood to flow, which had cost the life of so 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


151 


many innocent men, and which had finally conducted 
him to the scaffold. 

“Jean," she murmured, “remember our father!" 

The young man’s face became livid ; his hands clinched 
involuntarily, but he controlled his anger. Advancing 
toward his sister, in a cold, quiet tone that added a 
frightful violence to his threats, he said: 

“It is because I remember my father that justice shall 
be done. Ah 1 these miserable nobles would not display 
such audacity if all sons had my resolution. A scoun- 
drel would hesitate before attacking a good man if lie 
was obliged to say to himself : T cannot strike this hon- 
est man, for though he die, his children will surely call 
me to account. Their fury will fall on me and mine ; 
they will pursue us sleeping and waking, pursue us 
without ceasing, everywhere and pitilessly. Their 
hatred, always on the alert, will accompany ’is, and sur- 
round us. It will be an implacable, merciless warfare. 
1 shall never venture forth without fearing a bullet ; I 
shall never lift food to my lips without dread of poison. 
And until we have succumbed, they will prowl about 
our house, trying to slip in through tiniest opening 
death, dishonor, ruin, infamy and misery !"’ He paused 
with a nervous laugh, and then, still more slowly, he 
added: “That is what the Sairmeuse and Courtornien 
have to expect from me." 

It was impossible to mistake the meaning of Jean 
Lacheneur’s words. His threats were not the wild rav- 
ings of anger. His quiet manner, his icy tones, his auto- 
matic gestures betrayed one of those cold rages which 
endure so long as the man lives. He took good care to 
make himself understood, for between his teeth, he 
added : 


152 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Undoubtedly, these people are very high, and I am 
very low ; but when a tiny worm fastens itself to the 
roots of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.” 

Marie- Anne knew all too well the uselessness of pray- 
ers and entreaties. And yet she could not, she must not 
allow her brother to depart in this mood. She fell upon 
her knees, and with clasped hands and supplicating voice : 

“Jean,” said she, “I implore you to renounce these 
projects. In the name of our mother, return to your 
better self. These are crimes which you are meditat- 
ing!” 

With a glance of scorn and a shrug of the shoulders, 
he replied : 

“Have done with this. 1 was wrong to confide my 
hopes to you. Do not make me regret that I came 
here.” 

Then the sister tried another plan. She rose, forced 
her lips to smile, and as if nothing unpleasant had passed 
between them, she begged Jean to remain with her that 
evening, at least, and share her frugal supper. 

“Remain!” she entreated ; “that is not much to do — 
and it will make me so happy I And since it will be the 
last time we shall see each other for years, grant me a 
few hours. It is so long since we have met. I have 
suffered so much. I have so many things to tell you ! 
Jean, my dear brother, can it be that you love me no 
longer?” 

One must have been bronze to remain insensible to 
such prayers. Jean Lacheneur’s heart swelled almost 
to bursting ; his stern features relaxed, and a tear trem- 
bled in his eye. Marie- Anne saw that tear. She thought 
she had conquered, and clapping her hands with delight# 
she exclaimed: “Ah! you will remain! you will remain I’ ' 


MONSIEU® LECOQ. 


153 


No. Jean had already mastered his momentary 
weakness, though not without a terrible effort; and, 
in a harsh voi«e : 

‘Impossible! impossible!” he repeated. Then, as his 
sister clung to him imploringly, he took her in his arms 
and pressed her to his heart. “Poor sister — poor Marie- 
Anne — you will never know what it cOsts me to refuse 
you, to separate myself from you ! But this must be. 
In even coming here I have been guilty of an impru- 
dent act. You do not understand to what perils you 
will be exposed if people suspect any bond between us. 
I trust you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. 
It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild 
schemes. Think of me sometimes, but do not try to see 
me, or even to learn what has become of me. A man 
like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone!” He 
kissed Marie- Anne passionately, then lifted her, placed 
her in a chair, and freed himself from her detaining 
hands. “Adieu!” he cried; “when you see me again, 
our father will be avenged !” 

She sprang up to rush after him and to call him back 
— too late ! He had fled. 

“It is over!” murmured the wretched girl; “my 
brother is lost! Nothing will restrain him now!” 

A vague, inexplicable, but horrible fear contracted 
her heart. She felt that she was being slowly but sure- 
ly drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancor, vengeance 
and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be 
crushed. But other thoughts soon replaced these gloomy 
presentiments. 

One evening, while she was preparing her little table, 
she heard a rustling sound at the door. She turned and 
looked : some one had slipped a letter under the door. 


- 154 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Courageously, and without an instant’s hesitation, she 
sprang to the door and opened it. No one was there. 
The night was dark, and she could distinguish nothing 
in the gloom without. She listened ; not a sound broke 
the stillness. Agitated and trembling, she picked up the 
letter, approached the light, and looked at the address. 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse !” she exclaimed, in amaze- 
ment. She recognized Martial’s handwriting. So he 
had written to her ! He had dared to write to her ! 
Her first impulse was to burn the letter ; she held it to 
the flame, then the thought of her friends concealed at 
Father Poignot’s farm made her withdraw it. “For 
their sake,” she thought, “I must read it.” She broke 
the seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family in- 
scribed upon it, and read : 

“My dear Marie- Anne — Perhaps you have suspected 
who it is that has given an entirely new, and certainly 
surprising, direction to events. Perhaps you have also 
understood the motives that guided him. In that case, 
T am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse 
me your friendship and your esteem. 

“But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished. 
I have prepared everything for a revision of the judg- 
ment that condemned Baron d’Eseorval to death, or for 
procuring a pardon. 

“You must know where the baron is concealed. Ac- 
quaint him with my plans, and ascertain whether he 
prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon. If 
he desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license 
from the king. 

“I await your reply before acting. 

“Martial de Sairmeuse.” 

Marie- Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time 
that Martial had astonished her by the grandeur of his 
passion. How noble the two men who had loved her. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


155 


and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to 
be ! One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, pro- 
tected her still. Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the 
convictions of his life and the prejudice of his race for 
her sake ; and, with a noble recklessness, hazarded for 
her the political fortunes of his house. And yet the 
man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, 
Maurice d’Escorval, had not given a sign of life since 
he quitted her, five months before. But suddenly, and 
without reason, Marie- Anne passed from the most pro- 
found admiration to the deepest distrust. 

“What if Martial’s offer is only a trap?” This was 
the suspicion that darted through her mind. “Ah !’’ she 
thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if 
he were sincere !’’ 

And she did not wish him to be a hero. The result of 
these suspicions was that she hesitated five days before 
repairing to the rendezvous where Father Poignot usu- 
ally awaited her. When she did so, she found not the 
worthy farmer, but Abbe Midon, who had been greatly 
alarmed by her long absence. It was night, but Marie- 
Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart. The 
abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very 
slowly, and when she had concluded : 

“This young man,’’ said the priest, “has the voice and 
the prejudices o^ nis rank and of his education ; but his 
heart is noble and generous.” And when Marie- Anne 
had disclosed her suspicions: “You were wrong, my 
child,” said he; “the marquis is certainly sincere. It 
would be wwong not to take advantage of his generosity. 
Such, at least, is my opinion. Intrust this letter to me. 
I will consult the baron, and to-morrow I will tell you 
our decision.” 


156 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The abbe was awaiting her with feverish impatience 
on the same spot, when she rejoined him, twenty-four 
hours later. 

“M. d’Escorral agrees with me that we must trust our- 
selves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, 
being innocent, can not, will not accept a pardon. He 
demands a revision of. the iniquitous judgment which 
condemned him.’* 

Althougn she must have foreseen this determination, 
Marie- Anne seemed stupefied. 

“What!” said she. “Monsieur d’Escorval will give 
himself up to his enemies?” 

“Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse promise him a let- 
ter of license, a safe conduct from the king?” 

“Yes.” 

She could find no objection, so in a submissive tone, 
she said : 

“In this case, monsieur, I must ask you for a rough 
draft of the letter I am to write to the marquis.” 

The priest did not reply for a moment. It was evident 
that he felt some misgivings. At last, summoning all 
his courage, he said : “It would be better not to write.” 

“But—” 

“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any 
means, but a letter is dangerous; it does not always 
reach the person to whom it is addressed. You must 
see Monsieur de Sairmeuse. ” 

Marie- Anne recoiled in horror. 

“Never! never!” she exclaimed. 

The abbe did not seem surprised. 

“I understand your repugnance, my child,” he said, 
gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through 
the attentions of the marquis.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


157 


“Oh I sir, I entreat you !“ 

“But one should not hesitate, my child, when duty 
speaks. You owe this sacrifice to an innocent man who 
has been ruined through your father.” 

He explained to her all that she must say, and did not 
leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in 
person. But the cause of her repugnance was not what 
the abbe supposed. Her reputation ! Alas ! she knew 
that was lost forever. No, it was not that. A fortnight 
before she would not have been disquieted by the pros- 
pect of this interview. Then, though she no longer hated 
Martial, he was perfectly indifferent to her, while now — 

Perhaps in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the place of 
meeting she hoped that this spot, haunted by so many 
cruel memories, would restore her former aversion. On 
pursuing the path leading to the place of rendezvous, 
she said to herself that Martial would undoubtedly 
wound her by the tone of careless gallantry which was 
habitual to him. 

But in this she was mistaken. Martial was greatly agi- 
tated, but he did not utter a word that was not connected 
with the baron. It was only when the conference was 
ended, and he had consented to all the conditions, that 
he said, sadly : “We are friends, are we not?” 

In an almost inaudible voice she answered: “Yes.” 

And that was all. He remounted his horse, which 
had been held by a servant, and departed in the direc- 
tion of Montaignac. 

Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched 
him as he disappeared ; and then her inmost heart was 
revealed by a lightning flash. 

'"Mon Dieu! wretch that lam!” she exclaimed. “Do 


158 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


I not love? — is it possible that I could ever love any other 
than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?” 

Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she 
recounted the details of the interview to the abbe. But 
he did not perceive it. He was thinking only of the 
baron. 

“I was sure that Martial would say ‘amen’ to every- 
thing ; I was so certain of it that I have made all the 
arrangements for the baron to leave the farm. He will 
await, at your house, a safe conduct from his majesty. 
The close air and the heat of the loft are retarding the 
baron’s recovery,” the abbe pursued, “so be prepared 
for his coming to-morrow evening. One of the Poignot 
boys will bring over all our baggage. About eleven 
o’clock we will put Monsieur d’Escorval in a carriage ; 
and we will all sup together at the Borderie.” 

“Heaven comes to my aid!” thought Marie- Anne, as 
she w^alked homeward. 

She thought that she would no longer be alone, that 
Mme. d’Escorval would be with her to talk to her of 
Maurice, and that all the friends who would surround 
her would aid her in driving away the thoughts of Mar- 
tial, which haunted her. So the next day she was more 
cheerful than she had been for months, and once, wjiile 
putting her little house in order, she was surprised to 
find herself singing at her work. 

Eight o’clock was sounding when she heard a peculiar 
whistle. It was the signal of the younger Poignot, w^ho 
came bringing an arm-chair for the sick man, the abbe’s 
box of medicines, and a bag of books. These articles 
Marie- Anne deposited in the room which Chanlouineau 
had adorned for her, and which she intended for the 
baron. After arranging them to her satisfaction, she 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


159 


went out to meet young Poignot, who had told her that 
he would soon return with other articles. 

The night was very dark, and Marie- Anne, as she hast- 
ened on, did not notice two motionless figures in the 
shadow of a clump of lilacs in her little garden. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

Detected by Mme. Blanche in a palpable falsehood, 
Chupin was quite crestfallen for a moment. He saw 
1 the pleasing vi'-ion of a retreat at Courtornieu vanish ; he 
' saw him°''vf suddenly deprived of frequent gifts which 
permitted him to spare his hoarded treasure, and even 
to increase it. But he soon regained his assurance, and 
with an affectation of frankness, he said : 

‘T may be stupid, but I could not deceive an infant. 
Some one must have told you falsely.” 

Mme. Blanche shrugged her shoulders. 

‘T obtained my information from two persons, who 
I were ignorant of the interest it would possess for me.” 

‘‘As truly as the sun is in the heavens, I swear — ” 

‘‘Do not swear; simply confess that you have been 
wanting in zeal.” 

The young lady’s manner betrayed such positive cer- 
tainty that Chupin ceased his denials and changed his 
tactics. With the most abject humility, he admitted 
that the evening before he had relaxed his surveillance ; 
he had been very busy; one of his boys had injured his 
foot ; then he had encountered some friends, who per- 
suaded him to enter a drinking-saloon, where he had 
taken more than usual, so that—” He told this story 
in a whining tone, and every moment he interrupted 


160 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


himself to affirm his repentance and to cover himself 
with reproaches. “Old drunkard I'*’ he said, “this will 
teach you—” 

But these protestations, far from reassuring Mme. 
Blanche, made her still more suspicious. 

“All this is very well. Father Chupin,” she said dryly, 
“but what are you going to do now to repair your negli- 
gence?” 

“What do I intend to do?” he exclaimed, feigning 
the most violent anger. “Oh! you will see. I will 
prove that no one can deceive me with impunity. Near 
the Borderie is a small grove. I shall station myself 
there ; and may the devil seize me if a cat enters that 
house unbeknown to me.” 

Mme. Blanche drew her purse from her pocket, and 
taking out three louis, she gave them to Chupin, saying : 

“Take these, and be more careful in future. Another 
blunder like this, and I shall be compelled to ask the aid 
of some other person. ” ^ 

The old poacher went away, whistling, quite reassured ; 
but he was wrong. The lady’s generosity was only in- 
tended to allay his suspicions. And why should she not 
suppose he had betrayed her — this miserable wretch, 
who made it his business to betray others? What reason 
had she for placing any confidence in his reports? She 
paid him I Others, by paying him more, would certainl}> 
have the preference. But how could she ascertain what 
she wished to know? Ah 1 she saw but one w-ay— a very 
disagreeable, but a sure way. She, herself, would play 
the spy. This idea took such possession of 'her mind 
that, after dinner was concluded, and twilight had en- 
veloped the earth in a mantle of gray,* she summoned 
Aunt Medea. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


161 


“Get your cloak, quickly, aunt,” she commanded. “I 
am going for a walk, and you must accompany me.” 

Aunt Medea extended her hand to the bell-rope, but 
her niece stopped her. r. 

“You will dispense with the services of your maid,” 
said she. “I do not wish any one in the chateau to 
know that we have gone out.” 

“Are we going alone?” 

“Alone.” 

“Alone, and on foot, at night — ” 

“I am in a hurry, aunt,” interrupted Blanche, “and I 
am waiting for you.” 

In the twinkling of an eye Aunt Medea was ready. 

The marquis had just been put to bed, the servants 
were at dinner, and Blanche and Aunt Medea reached 
the little gate leading from the garden into the open 
Helds without being observed. 

“Good Heavens! Where are we going?” groaned 
Aunt Medea. 

“Wliat is that to you? Come 1” 

Mme. Blanche was going to the Borderie. She could 
have followed the banks of the Giselle, but she preferred 
to cut across the fields, thinking she would be less likely 
jto meet some one. The night was still, but very dark, 
and the progress of the two women was often retarded 
by hedges and ditches. Twice Blanche lost her way. 
Again and again, Aunt Medea stumbled over the rough 
3 :round, and bruised herself against the stones; she 
:^roaned, she almost wept, but her terrible niece was 
litiless. “Come 1” she said, “or I will leave you to find 
vour way as best you can 1” 

And the poor dependent struggled on. At last, after 
i tramp of more than an hour, Blanche ventured to 


162 


MONSIEUR LECOQ.. 


breathe. She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, and she 
paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken. 

“Are we at our journey’s end?” inquired Aimt Medea, 
timidly. ^ 

“Yes ; but be quiet ! Remain where you are ; I wish 
to look about a little.” 

“What I you are leaving me alone? Blanche, I en- 
treat you ! What are you going to do? Mon Dieu ! you 
frighten me. I am afraid, Banche !” 

But her niece had gone. She was exploring the grove, 
seeking Chupin. She did not find him. 

“I knew the wretch was deceiving me !” she muttered 
through her set teeth. “Who knows but Martial and 
Marie- Anne are there in that house now, mocking me, 
and laughing at my credulity I” 

She rejoined Aunt Medea, whom she found half dead 
with fright, and both advanced to the edge of the woodsv 
which commanded a view of the front of the house. A 
flickering, crimson light gleamed through two windows 
in the second story. Evidently there was a fire in the 
room. 

“That is right,” murmured Blanche, bitterly ; “Mar- 
tial is such a chilly person I” 

She was about to approach the liouse when a peculiar 
whistle rooted her to the spot. She looked about her, 
and, in spite of the darkness, she discerned in the foot- 
path leading to the Borderie a man laden with articles 
which she could not distinguish. Almost immediately 
a woman, certainly Marie- Anne, left the house and ad- 
vanced to meet him. They exchanged a few words, and 
then walked together to the house. Soon after the man 
emerged without his burden and went awa3^ 

“What does this mean?” murmured Mme. Blanche. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


163 


She waited patiently for more than half an hour, and 
as nothing stirred : “Let us go nearer,” she said to Aunt 
Medea, “I wish to look through the windows.” 

They were approaching the house, when, just as they 
reached the little garden, the door of the cottage opened 
so suddenly that they had scarcely time to conceal them- 
selves in a clump of lilac-bushes. Marie- Anne came 
out, imprudently leaving the key in the door, passed 
down the narrow path, gained the road and disappeared. 
Blanche pressed Aunt Medea’s arm with a violence that 
made her cry out. 

“Wait for me here,” she said, in a strained, unnatural 
voice, “and whatever happens, whatever you hear, if 
you wish to finish your days at Courtornieu, not a word ! 
Do not stir from this spot; I will return.” And she 
entered the cottage. 

Marie- Anne, on going out, had left a candle burning 
i on the table in the front room. Blanche seized it and 
; boldly began an exploration of the dwelling. She had 
! gone over the arrangement of the Borderie so often in 
\ her own mind, that the rooms seemed familiar to her — 
she seemed to recognize them. In spite of Chupin’s de- 
] scription, the poverty of this humble abode astonished 
j her. There was no fioor save the ground ; the walls 

I were poorly whitewashed ; all kinds of grain and bunches 
-of herbs hung suspended from the ceiling ; a few heavy 
tables, wooden benches and clumsy chairs constituted 
the entire furniture. Marie -Anne evidently occupied 
the back room. It was the only apartment that con- 
tained a bed. This was one of those immense country 
affairs, very high and broad, with tall fiuted posts, 
-draped with green serge curtains, sliding back and 
_ forth on iron rings. At the head of the bed, fastened 


164 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to the wall, hung a receptacle for holy water. Blanche 
dipped her finger in the bowl ; it was full to the brim. 
Beside the window was a wooden shelf supported by a 
hook, and on the slielf stood a basin and bowl of the 
commonest earthenware. 

“It must be confessed that my husband does not pro- 
vide a very sumptuous abode for his idol,” said Mme. 
Blanche, with a sneer. 

She was almost on the point of asking herself if jeal- 
ousy had not led her astray. She remembered Martial’s 
fastidious tastes, and she did not know how to reconcile 
them with these meager surroundings. Then, there was 
the holy water ! But her suspicions became stronger 
when she entered the kitchen. Some savory compound 
was bubbling in a pot over the fire, and several sauce- 
pans, in which fragrant stews were simmering, stood 
among the warm ashes. 

“All this cannot be for her,” murmured Blanche. 

Then she remembered the two windows in the story 
above which she had seen illuminated by the trembling 
glow of the fire-light. 

“I must examine the rooms above,” she thought. 

The staircase led up from the middle of the room ; she 
knew this. She quickly ascended the stairs, pushed open 
a door, and could not repress a cry of surprise and rage. 
She found herself in the sumptuously appointed room 
which Chanlouineau had made the sanctuary of his great 
love, and upon which he had lavished, with the fanati- 
cism of passion, all that was costly and luxurious. 

“Then it is true!” exclaimed Blanche. “And I 
thought just now that all was too meager and too 
poor! Miserable dupe that I am! Below, all is ar- 
ranged for the eyes of comers and goers. Here, every- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


165 


thing is intended exclusively for themselves. Now, I 
recognize Martial’s astonishing talent for dissimulation. 
He loves this vile creature so much that he is anxious in 
regard to her reputation ; he keeps his visits to her a 
secret, and this is the hidden paradise of their love I 
Here they laugh at me, the poor forsaken wife, whose 
marriage was but a mockery ! ’ ’ 

She had desired to know the truth ; certainty was less 
terrible to endure than this constant suspicion. And, as 
if she found a little enjoyment in proving the extent 
of Martial’s love for a hated rival, she took an inventory, 
as it were, of the magnificent appointments of the cham- 
ber, feeling the heavy brocaded silk stuff that formed 
the curtains, and testing the thickness of the rich carpet 
with her foot. Everything indicated that Marie-Anne 
was expecting some one ; the bright fire, the large arm- 
chair placed before the hearth, the embroidered slippers 
lying beside the chair. And whom could she expect 
save Martial? The person who had been there a few 
moments before probably came te announce the arrival 
of her lover, and she had gone out to meet him. For a 
trifling circumstance would seem to indicate that this 
rhessenger had not been expected. Upon the hearth 
stood a bowl of still smoking bouillon. It was evident 
that Marie-Anne was on the point of drinking this when 
she heard the signal. 

Mme. Blanche was wondering how she could profit by 
her discovery, when her eyes fell upon a large oaken box 
standing open upon a table near the glass door leading 
into the dressing-room, and filled with tiny boxes and 
vials. Mechanically she approached it, and among the 
'bottles she saw two of blue glass, upon which the word 
“poison” was inscribed. 


166 


MONSIEUR, LECOQ. 


“Poison !“ Blanche could not turn her eyes from this 
word, which seemed to exert a kind of fascination over 
her. A diabolical inspiration associated the contents of 
these vials with the bowl standing upon the mantel. 
“And why not?” she murmured. “I could escape 
afterward.” 

A terrible thought made her pause. Martial would 
return with Marie- Anne ; who could say that it would 
not be he who would drink the contents of the bowl? 

“God shall decide 1 ” she murmured. “It is better 
one’s husband should be dead than belong to another!” 
And with a firm hand she took up one of the vials. 

Since her entrance into the cottage, Blanche had 
scarcely been conscious of her acts. Hatred and despair 
had clouded her brains like fumes of alcohol. But when 
her hand came in contact with the glass containing the 
deadly drug, the terrible shock dissipated her bewilder- 
ment; she regained the full possession of ber faculties; 
the power of calm deliberation returned. This is proved 
by the fact that her firgt thought was this : 

“I am ignorant even of the name of the poison which 
I hold. What dose must I administer, much or little?” 

She opened the vial, not without considerable difficulty, 
and poured a few grains of its contents into the palm of 
her hand. It was a fine, white powder, glistening like 
pulverized glass, and looking not unlike sugar. 

“Can it really be sugar?” she thought. 

Resolved to ascertain, she moistened the tip of her 
finger, and collected upon it a few atoms of the powder, 
which she placed upon her tongue. The taste was like 
that of an extremely acid apple. Without hesitation, 
without remorse, without even turning pale, she poured 
into the bowl the entire contents of the vial. Her self- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


167 


possession was so perfect, she even recollected that the 
powder might be slow in dissolving, and she stirred it 
gently for a moment or more. Having done this— she 
seemed to think of everything — she tasted the bouillon. 
She noticed a slightly bitter taste, but it was not suf- 
ficiently perceptible to awaken distiaist. Now Mme. 
Blanche breathed freely. If she could succeed in mak- 
ing her escape she was avenged. 

She was going toward the door when a sound on the 
stairs startled her. Two persons were ascending the 
staircase. Where should she go ; where could she con- 
ceal herself? She was now so sure she would be detected 
that she almost decided to throw the bowl into the fire 
and then boldly face the intruders. But no — a chance 
remained — she darted into the dressing-room. She dared 
not close the door, the least click of the latch would 
have betrayed her. Marie- Anne entered the chamber, 
followed by a peasant bearing a large bundle. 

“Ah ! here is my candle !’’ she exclaimed, as she crossed 
the threshold. “Joy must be making me lose my wits ! 
I could have swo?- i that I left it on the table downstairs. ” 

Blanche shud lered. She had not thought of this cir- 
cumstance. 

“Where shall 1 put this clothing?” asked the young 
peasant. 

“Lay it down here. I will arrange the articles by and 
by,” replied Marie-Anne. 

The boy dropped his heavy burden with a sigh of re- 
lief. “This is the last,” he exclaimed. “Now, our 
gentleman can come.” 

“At what hour will he start?” inquired Marie-Anne. 

“At eleven o’clock. It will be nearly midnight when 
he gets here.” 


168 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Marie- Anne glanced at the magnificent clock on tli^ 
mantel. “I have still three hours before me,” said she; 
“more time than I shall need. Supper is ready; lam 
going to set the table here, by the fire. Tell him to bring 
a good appetite.” 

“I will tell him, and many thanks, mademoiselle, for 
having come to meet me and aid me with my second 
load. It was not so very heavy, but it was clumsy to 
handle.” 

“Will you not accept a glass of wine?” 

“No, thank you. I must hasten back. Au revoir. 
Mademoiselle Lacheneur !” 

''Au revoir, Poignotl” 

This name, Poignot, had no significance in the ears of 
Blanche. Ah! had she heard M. d’EscorvaPs or the 
abbe’s name mentioned, she might have felt some doubts 
of Marie- Anne’s guilt ; her resolution might have wav- 
ered, and — who knows? But no. Young Poignot, in 
referring to the baron, had said: “Our gentleman.” 

Marie- Anne said, “He.” Is not “he” always the per- 
son who is uppermost in our minds, the husband whom 
one hates, or the lover whom one adores? 

“Our gentleman I” “he !” Blanche translated Martial. 

Yes, it was the Marquis de Sairmeuse who was to ar- 
rive at midnight. She wasksure of it. It was he who 
had been preceded by a messenger bearing clothing. 
This could only mean that he was about to establish 
himself at the Borderie. Perhaps he would cast aside 
all secrecy and live there openly, regardless of his rank, 
of his dignity, and of his duties ; forgetful even of his 
prejudices. 

These conjectures infiamed her fury still more. Why 
should she hesitate or tremble, after that? Her only 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


169 


V dread now was lest she should be discovered. Aunt 
Medea was, it is true, in the garden ; but after the orders 
she had received the poor woman would remain motion- 
less as stone behind the clump of lilacs the entire night, 
if necessary. For two hours and a half Marie- Anne 
would be alone at the Borderie. Blanche reflected that 
this would give her ample time to watch the effects of 
the poison upon her hated rival. When the crime was 
discovered she would be far away. No one knew she 
had been absent from Courtornieu ; no one had seen her 
leave the chateau ; Aunt Medea would be as silent as the 
grave. And, besides, who would dare to accuse her. 
Marquise de Sairmeuse, nee Blanche de Courtornieu, of 
being the murderer? 

“But she does not drink it !“ Blanche thought. 

Marie-Anne had, in fact, forgotten the bouillon en- 
tirely. She had opened the bundle of clothing, and was 
busily arranging the articles in a wardrobe near the bed. 

Who talks of presentiments? She was as gay and 
vivacious as in her days of happiness, and as she worked ; 
she hummed an’ air that Maurice had often sung. She 
felt that her troubles were nearly over; her friends 
would soon be around her. 

When the task of putting away the clothing was com- 
pleted and the wardrobe closed, she drew a small table 
up before the fire. Not until then did she notice the 
bowl standing upon the mantel. 

“Stupid!” she said, with a laugh; and taking the 
bowl she raised it to her lips. 

From her hiding-place Blanche had heard Marie-Anne’s 
exclamation ; she saw the movement, and yet not the 
slightest remorse struck her soul. Marie-Anne drank 
but one mouthful, then, in evident disgust, set the bowl 


170 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


down. A horrible dread made the watcher’s heart 
stand still, 

“Does she notice a peculiar taste in the bouillon ?” she 
thought. 

No; but it had grown cold, and a slight coating of 
grease had formed over the top. Marie- Anne took the 
spoon, skimmed the bouillon, and then stirred it up ^or 
some time, to divide the greasy particles. After she had 
done this she drank the liquid, put the bowl back upon 
the mantel, and resumed her work. 

It was done. The denouement no longer depended 
upon Blanche de Courtornieu’s will. Come what would, 
she was a murderess. But though she was conscious of 
her crime, the excess of her hatred prevented her from 
realizing its enormity. She said to herselc that it was 
only an act of- justice which she had accomplished; 
that the vengeance she had taken was not proportionate 
to the offense, and that nothing could atone for the tor- 
ture she had endured. But in a few moments a sinister 
apprehension took possession of her mind. Her knowl- 
edge of the effects of poison was extremely limited. She 
had expected to see Marie- Anne fall dead before her, as 
if stricken down by a thunderbolt. 

But no. The moments slipped by, and Marie-Anne 
continued her preparations for supper as if nothing had 
occurred. She spread a white cloth over the table, 
smoothed it with her hands, and placed a dish upon it. 

“What if she should come in here?” thought Blanche. 

The fear of punishment which precedes remorse made 
her heart beat with such violence that she could not 
understand why its throbbings were not heard in the ad- 
joining room. Her terror increased when she saw Marie- 
Anne take the light and go downstairs. Blanche was 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


171 


left alone. The thought of making her escape occurred 
to her ; but how, and by what way could she leave the 
house without being seen? 

“It must be that the poison does not work !“ she said, 
in a rage. 

Alas ! no. She knew better when Marie-Anne reap- 
peared. In the few moments she had spent below, her 
features had become frightfully changed. Her face was 
livid and mottled with purple spots, her eyes were dis- 
tended and glittered with a strange brilliancy. She let 
the plates which she held fall upon the table with a crash. 

“The poison ! it begins I” thought Blanche. 

Marie-Anne stood on the hearth, gazing wildly around 
her, as if seeking the cause of her incomprehensible suf- 
fering. She passed and repassed her hand across her 
forehead, which was bathed in a cold perspiration ; she 
gasped for breath. Then, suddenly overcome with 
nausea, she staggered, pressed her hands convulsively 
upon her breast, and sank into the arm-chair, crying; 

“Oh, God ! how I suffer I” 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

Kneeling by the half-open door, Blanche eageny 
watched the workings of the poison she had adminis- 
tered. She was so near her victim that she could dis- 
tinguish the throbbing of her temples, and sometimes 
she fancied she could feel upon her cheek her rival’s 
breath, which scorched like flame. 

An utter prostration followed Marie- Anne’s paroxysm 
of agony. One would have supposed her dead, had it 


172 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


not been for the convulsive working of the jaws and her 
labored breathing. But soon the nausea returned, and 
she was seized with vomitings. Each effort to relieve 
herself seemed to wrench her whole body, and gradually 
a ghastly tint crept over her face, the spots upon her 
cheeks became more pronounced in tint, her eyes ap- 
I)eared ready to burst from their sockets, and great drops 
of perspiration rolled down her cheeks. Her sufferings 
must have been intolerable. She moaned feebly at times, 
and occasionally uttered heartrending shrieks. Then 
she faltered fragmentary sentences; she begged pite- 
ously for water, or entreated God to shorten her torture. 

“Ah ! it is horrible I I suffer too much I Death 1 My 
God I grant me death I” 

She invoked all the friends she had ever known, call- 
ing for aid in a despairing voice. She called Mme. d’Es- 
corval, the abbe, Maurice, her brother, Chanlouineau, 
Martial ! 

Martial !— this name was more than sufficient to extin- 
guish all pity in the heart of Mme. Blanche. “Go on I 
call your lover, call I” she said to herself, bitterly. “He 
will come too late!” And, as Marie- Anne repeated the 
name in a tone of agonized entreaty: “Suffer!” con- 
tinued Mme. Blanche— “suffer, you who have inspired 
Martial with the odious courage to forsake me, his wife, 
as a drunken lackey would abandon the lowest of de- 
graded creatures ! Die, and my husband will return tc 
me repentant !” 

No, she had no pity. She felt a difficulty in breath- 
ing, but that resulted simply from the instinctive horror 
which the sufferings of others inspire— an entirely differ- 
ent physical impression, which is adorned with the fine 
name of sensibility, but which is, in reality, the grossest 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


173 


selfishness. And yet, Marie- Anne was perceptibly sink- 
ing. Soon she had nou strength even to moan ; her eyes 
closed, and after a spasm which brought a bloody foam 
to her lips, her head sank back, and she lay motionless. 

*‘ItisoverI” murmured Blanche. 

She rose, but her limbs trembled so that she could 
scarcely stand. Her heart remained firm and implac- 
able ; but the flesh failed. Never had she imagined a 
scene like that which she had just witnessed. She knew 
that poison caused death; she had not suspected the 
agony of that death. She no longer thought of aug- 
menting Mane- Anne’s sufferings by upbraiding her. 
Her only desire now was to leave this house, whose 
very floor seemed to scorch her feet. A strange, inex- 
plicable sensation crept over her ; it was not yet fright, 
it was the stupor that follows the commission of a ter- 
rible crime— the stupor of the murderer. Still, she com- 
pelled herself to wait a few moments longer ; then, see- 
ing that Marie- Anne still remained motionless and with 
closed eyes, she ventured to softly open the door and 
to enter the room in which her victim was lying. 

But she had not advanced three steps before Marie- 
Anne suddenly, and as if she had been galvanized by an 
electric battery, rose and extended her arms to bar her 
enemy’s passage. This movement was so unexpected 
and so frightful that Mme. Blanche recoiled. 

“The Marquise de Sairmeuse!” faltered Marie-Anne. 
“You here, Blanche— here !’’ And her suffering, ex- 
plained by the presence of this young girl who once had 
been her friend, but who was now her bitterest enemy, 
she exclaimed: “You are my murderer!” 

Blanche de Courtornieu’s was one of those iron natures 
that break, but never bend. Since she had been discov- 


174 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ered, nothing in the world would induce her to deny her 
guilt. She advanced resolutely, and in a firm voice : 

“Yes,” she said ; “I have taken my revenge ! Do you 
think I did not suffer that evening when you sent your 
brother to take away my newly-wedded husband, upon 
whose face I have not gazed since?” 

“Your husband ! I sent to take him away? I do not 
understand you!” 

“Do you then dare to deny that you are Martial* 
mistress?” 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse ! I saw him yesterday for 
the first time since Baron d’Escorval’s escape.” 

The effort which she had made to rise and to speak had 
exhausted her strength. She fell back in the arm-chair. 
But Blanche was pitiless. “You have not seen Martial ! 
Tell me, then, who gave you this costly furniture, these 
silken hangings, all the luxury that surrounds you?’* 

“Chanlouineau. ’* 

Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “So be it,” she said, 
with an ironical smile ; “but is it Chanlouineau for whom 
you are waiting this evening? Is it for Chanlouineau 
you have warmed these slippers and laid this table? Was 
it Chanlouineau who sent his clothing by a peasant 
named Poignot? You see that I know all!” And, as 
her victim was silent: “For whom are you waiting?” 
she insisted. “Answer!” 

“I cannot !” 

“You know that it is your lover! wretched woman— 
my husband. Martial !” 

Marie- Anne was considering the situation as well as 
her intolerable sufferings and troubled mind would per- 
mit. Could she tell what guests she was expecting? To 
name the Baron d Escorval to Blanche, would it not ruin 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


175 


and betray him? They hoped for a safe conduct, a re- 
vision of judgment, but he was none the less under sen- 
tence of death, executory in twenty-four hours. 

“So you refuse to tell me whom you expect here in an 
hour — at midnight I" 

“I refuse!” 

But a sudden impulse took possession of the sufferer’s 
mind. Though the slightest movement caused her in- 
tolerable agony, she tore open her dress and drew from 
her bosom a folded paper. 

“I am not the mistress of the Marquis de Sairmeuse,” 
she said, in an almost inaudible voice; “lam the wife 
of Maurice d’Escorval. Here is the proof — read.” 

No sooner had Blanche glanced at the paper than she 
became as pale as her victim. Her sight failed her; 
there was a strange ringing in her ears, a cold sweat 
started from every pore. This paper was the marriage 
certificate of Maurice and Marie-Anne, drawn up by 
the cure of Vigano, witnessed by the old physician and 
Bavois, and sealed with the seal of the parish. The proof 
was indisputable. She had committed a useless crime ; 
sue had murdered an innocent woman. The first good 
impulse of her life made her heart beat more quickly. 
She did not stop to consider ; she forgot the danger to 
which she exposed herself, and in a ringing voice she 
cried: “Help! help!” 

Eleven o’clock was sounding; the whole country was 
asleep. The farmhouse nearest the Borderie was half a 
league distant. The voice of Blanche was lost in the 
deep stillness of the night. In the garden below Aunt 
Medea heard it, perhaps ; but she would have allowed 
heraelf to be chopped in pieces rather than stir from her 
place. 


176 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


And yet, there was one who heard that cry of distress. 
Had Blanche and her victim been less overwhelmed with 
despair, they would have heard a noise upon the stair- 
case, which creaked beneath the tread of a man who was 
cautiously ascending it. But it was not a savior, for he 
did not answer the appeal. But even though there had 
been aid near at hand, it would have come too late. 

Marie- Anne felt that there was no longer any hope for 
her, and that it was the chill of death which was creep- 
ing up to her heart. She felt that her life was fast ebb- 
ing away. So, when Blanche seemed about to rush out 
in search of assistance, she detained her by a gesture, 
and gently said : 

“Blanche 1” The murderess paused. “Do not sum- 
mon any one; it would do no good. Remain; be calm, 
that I may at least die in peace. It will not be long, 
now.” 

“Hush ! do not speak so. You must not, you shall not 
die ! If you should die — great God ! what would my life 
be afterward?” 

Marie-Anne made no reply. The poison was pursuing 
Its work of dissolution. Her breath made a whistling- 
sound, as it forced its way through her inflamed throat ; 
iier tongue, when she moved it, produced in her mouth 
the terrible sensation of a piece of red-hot iron ; her lips 
were parched and swollen ; her hands, inert and para- 
lyzed, would no longer obey her will. But the horror of 
the situation restored Blanche’s calmness. 

“All is not yet lost,” she exclaimed. “It was in that 
great box there upon the table, where I found”— she 
dared not utter the word poison— “the white powder 
which I poured into the bowl. You know this powder ; 
you must know the antidote. " 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


177 


Marie- Anne sadly shook her head. 

“Nothing can save me now,” she murmured, in an al- 
most inaudible voice; “but I do not complain. Who 
knows the misery from which death may preserve me. 
I do not crave life, I have suffered so much during the 
past year; I have endured such humiliation; I have 
wept so much ! A curse was upon me I” 

She was suddenly endowed with that_clearness of men- 
tal vision so often granted to the dying. She saw how 
she had wrought her own undoing by consenting to ac- 
cept the perfidious role imposed upon her by her father, 
and how she, herself, had paved the way for the false- 
hoods, slander, crimes and misfortunes of which she had 
been the victim. Her voice grew fainter and fainter. 
Worn out by suffering, a sensation of drowsiness stole 
over her. She was falling asleep in the arms of death. 
Suddenly, such a terrible thought pierced the stupor 
which enveloped her, that she uttered a heart-breaking 
cry; 

“My child!” Collecting, by a superhuman effort, all 
the will, energy and strength that the poison had left 
her, she straightened herself in her arm-chair, her feat- 
ures contracted by mortal anguish. “Blanche!” she 
said, with an energy of which one would have supposed 
her incapable. “Blanche, listen to me. It is the secret 
of my life which I am about to disclose ; no one suspects 
it. I have a son by Maurice. Alas ! many months have 
elapsed since my husband disappeared. If he is dead, 
what will become of my child? Blanche, you, who have 
killed me, must swear to me that you will be a mother 
to my child !“ 

Blanche was utterly overcome. ‘ ‘I swear ! ” she sobbed ; 
“I swear !” 


178 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“On that condition, but on that condition alone, I par- 
don you. But take carel Do not forget your oath I 
Blanche, God sometimes permits the dead to avenge 
themselves! You have sworn, remember. My spirit 
will allow you no rest if you do not fulfill your vow.” 

“I will remember!” sobbed Blanche; “I will remem- 
ber. But the child — ” 

“Ah ! I was afraid — cowardly creature that I was ! I 
dreaded the shame — then Maurice insisted — I sent my 
child away — your jealousy and my death are my punish- 
ment. Poor child ! I abandoned him to strangers. 
Wretched woman that I am ! Ah ! this suffering is too 
horrible! Blanche, remember — ” 

She spoke again, but her words were indistinct, inaudi- 
ble. Blanche frantically seized the dying woman’s arm, 
and endeavored to arouse her. 

“To whom have you confided your child?” she re- 
peated; “to whom? Marie- Anne — a word more — a 
single word — a name, Marie-Anne!” 

The unfortunate woman’s lips moved, but the death- 
rattle sounded in her throat ; a terrible convulsion shook 
her form ; she slid down from the chair, and fell full 
length upon the floor. 

Marie-Anne was dead — dead, and she had not disclosed 
the name of the old physician at Vigano to whom she 
had intrusted her child. She was dead, and the terrified 
murderess stood in the middle of the room, as rigid and 
motionless as a statue. It seemed to her that madness — 
a madness like that which had stricken her father— was 
developing itself in her brain. She forgot everything ; 
she forgot that a guest was expected at midnight ; that 
time was flying, and that she would surely be discovered 
if she did not flee. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


179 


But the man who had entered when she cried for aid 
was watching over her. When he saw that Marie- Anne 
had breathed her last, he made a slight noise at the door 
and thrust his leering face into the room. 

“Chupin!” faltered Mme. Blanche. 

‘ ‘In the flesh, ’ ’ he responded. ‘ ‘This was a grand chance 
for you. Ah, ha ! The business riled your stomach a 
little, but nonsense! that will soon pass off. But we 
must not dawdle here ; some one may come in. Let us 
make haste I” 

’Mechanically, the murderess advanced; but Marie- 
Anne’s dead body lay between her and the door, barring 
the passage. To leave the room it was necessary to step 
over the lifeless form of her victim. She had not cour- 
age to do this, and recoiled with a shudder. 

But Chupin was troubled by no such scruples. He 
sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she had 
been a child, and carried her out of the house. He was 
drunk with joy. Fears for the future no longer dis- 
quieted him, now that Mine. Blanche was bound to him 
by the strongest of chains — complicity in crime. He 
saw himself on the threshold of a life of ease and con- 
tinual feasting. Remorse for Lacheneur’s betrayal had 
ceased to trouble him. He saw himself sumptuously 
fed, lodged and clothed ; above all, effectually guarded 
by an army of servants. 

Blanche, who had experienced a feeling of deadly 
faintness, was revived by the cool night air. 

“I wish to walk,” said she. Chupin placed her on the 
ground, about twenty paces from the house. “And Aunt 
Medea!” she exclaimed. 

Her relative was beside her ; like one of those dogs 
who are left at the door when their master enters a 


180 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


house, she had instinctively followed her niece on 
seeing her borne from the cottage by the old poacher. 

“We must not stop to talk,” said Chupin. “Come, I 
will lead the way.” And taking Blanche by the arm, 
he hastened toward the grove. “Ah! so Marie- Anne 
had a child!” he said, as they hurried on. “She who 
pretended to be such a saint ! But where the devil has 
she put it?” 

“I shall find it.” 

“Hum ! That is easier said than done.” 

A shrill laugh resounding in the darkness interrupted 
him. He released his hold on the arm of Blanche and 
assumed an attitude of defense. Vain precaution ! A 
man concealed behind a tree bounded upon him, and, 
plunging his knife four times into the old poacher’s 
writhing body, cried: 

“Holy Virgin! now is my vow fulfilled! I shall no 
longer be obliged to eat with my fingers !” 

“The inn-keeper!” groaned the wounded man, sink- 
ing to the earth. 

For once in her life. Aunt Medea manifested some 
energy. “Come!” she shrieked, wild with fear, drag- 
ging her niece away. “Come — he is dead !” 

Not quite. The traitor had strength to crawl home 
and knock at the door. His wife and his youngest son 
were sleeping soundly. His eldest son, who had just re- 
turned home, opened the door. Seeing his father pros- 
trate on the ground, he thought he was intoxicated, and 
tried to lift him and carry him into the house ; but the 
old poacher begged him to desist. 

“Do not touch me,” said he. “It is all over with me; 
but listen : Lachsneur’s daughter has just been poisoned 
by Madame Blanche. It was to tell you this that I 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


181 


dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth a for- 
tune, my boy, if you are not a fool.” 

And he died, without being able to tell his family 
where he had concealed the price of Lacheneur’s blood. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

Of all the persons who witnessed Baron d’EscorvaPs 
terrible fall, the abbe was the only one who did not de- 
spair. What a learned doctor would not have dared to 
do, he did. He was a priest ; he had faith. He remem- 
bered the sublime saying of Ambroise Pare: ‘‘I dress 
the wound; God heals it.” 

After six months’ sojourn in Father Poignot’s secluded 
farmhouse, M. d’Escorval was able to sit up and to walk 
about a little, with the aid of crutches. Then he began 
to be seriously inconvenienced by his cramped quarters 
in the loft, where prudence compelled him to remain ; 
and it was with transports of joy that he welcomed the 
idea of taking up his abode at the Borderie with Marie- 
Anne. When the day of departure had been decided 
upon, he counted the minutes as impatiently as a school- 
boy pining for vacation. “I am suffocating here,” he 
said to his wife. ‘‘I am suffocating. Time drags so 
slowly. When will the happy day come I ” 

It came at last. During the morning all the articles 
which they had succeeded in procuring dui'ing their stay 
at the farmhouse were collected and packed ; and when 
night car'e, Pcignot’s son began the moving. 

“Everything is at the Borderie,” said the honest fel- 
low .n returniag from his last trip, “and Mademoiselle 
I.achsneur bids the baron bring a good appetite.” 


182 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“I shall have one, never fear!” responded the baron, 
gayly. “We shall all have one !” 

Father Poignot himself was busily engaged in harness- 
ing his best horse to the cart which was to convey M. 
d’Escorval to his new home. The worthy man’s heart 
grew sad at the thought of the departure of these guests, 
for whose sake he had incurred such danger. He felt 
that he should miss them, that the house would seem 
gloomy and deserted after they left it. He would allow 
no one else to perform the task of arranging the mattress 
comfortably in the cart. When this had been done to 
his satisfaction, he heaved a deep sigh and exclaimed : 
“It is time to start!” Slowly he ascended the narrow 
staircase leading to the loft. 

M. d’Escorval had not thought of the moment of part- 
ing. At the sight of the honest farmer, who came tow- 
ard him, his face crimson with emotion, to bid him fare- 
well, he forgot all the comforts that awaited him at the 
Borderie, in the remembrance of the loyal and coura- 
geous hospitality he had received in the house he was 
about to leave. The tears sprang to his eyes. 

“You have rendered me a service which nothing can 
repay, Father Poignot,” he said, with intense feeling. 
“You have saved my life !” 

“Oh! we will not talk of that, baron. In my place, 
you would have done the same — neither more nor less.' 

“I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope 
to live long enough to prove that I am not ungrateful.” 

The staircase was so narrow that they had consider- 
able difiS-Culty in carrying the baron down ; but finally 
they had him comfortably extended upon his mattress, 
and threw over him a few handfuls of straw, which 
concealed him entirely. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


183 


“Farewell, then!” said the old farmer, when the last 
handshake had been exchanged, “or, rather, au revoir, 
Monsieur le Baron, madame, and you, my good cure!” 

“All ready?” inquired young Poignot. 

“Yes,” replied the invalid. 

The cart, driven with the utmost caution by the young 
neasant, started slowly on its way. Mme. d’Escorval, 
leaning upon the abbe’s arm, walked about twenty paces 
in the rear. It was very dark, but had it been as light 
as day, the former cure of Sairmeuse might have en- 
countered any of his old parishioners without the least 
danger of detection. His hair and his beard had been 
allowed to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, 
and his sedentary life had caused him to become much 
stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of 
the neighborhood, and his face was hidden by a large 
slouch hat. He had not felt so tranquil in mind for 
months. Obstacles which had appeared almost insur- 
mountable had vanished. In the near future he saw the 
baron declared innocent by impartial judges; he saw 
himself re-installed in the presbytery of Sairmeuse. The 
recollection of Maurice was the only thing that marred 
his happiness. Why did he not give some sign of life? 
“But if he had met with any misfortune, we should 
have heard of it,” thought the priest. “He has with 
him a brave man— an old soldier, who would risk any 
thing to come and tell us.” He was so absorbed in these 
thoughts that he did not observe that Mme. d’Escorval 
was leaning more and more heavily upon his arm. 

“I am ashamed to confess it,” she said, at last, “but I 
can go no further. It has been so long since I was out 
of doors that I have almost forgotten how to walk.” 

“Fortunately, we are almost there,” replied the priest. 


184 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


A moment after, young Poignot stopped his cart in 
the road, at the entrance of the little foot-path leading 
to the Borderie. 

“Our journey is ended I” he remarked to the baron. 
Then he uttered a low whistle, like that which he had 
given a few hours before, to warn Marie- Anne of his 
arrival. ' 

No one appeared ; he whistled again, louder this time ; 
then with all his might— still no response. Mme. d’Es- 
corval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart. 

“It is very strange that Marie- Anne does not hear me,” 
remarked young Poignot, turning to them. “We cannot 
take the baron to the house until we have seen her. She 
knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?” 

“She is asleep, perhaps,” replied the abbe; “you stay 
with your horse, my boy, and I will go and wake her.” 

Certainly he did not feel the slightest disquietude. All 
was calm and still ; a bright light was shining through 
the windows of the second story. Still, when he saw the 
open door, a vague presentiment of evils stirred his heart. 

“What can this mean?” he thought. 

There was no light in the lower rooms, and the baron 
was obliged to feel for the staircase with his hands. At 
last he found it, and went up. But upon the threshold 
of the chamber he paused, petrified with horror by the 
spectacle before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on 
the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, were cov- 
ered with a white film ; her black and swollen tongue 
was hanging from her mouth. 

“Dead!” faltered the priest, “dead!” 

But this could not be. The abbe conquered his weak- 
ness, and approaching the poor girl, he took her hand. 
It was icy cold ; the arm was as rigid as iron. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


185 


“Poisoned!” he murmured; “poisoned with arsenic !” 

He rose to his feet and cast a bewildered glance around 
the room. His eyes fell upon his medicine chest, open 
upon the table. He rushed to it and unhesitatingly took 
out a vial, uncorked it, and inverted it on the palm of 
his hand — it was empty. 

“I was not mistaken I” he exclaimed. 

But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first 
tiling to be done was to induce the baron to return to the 
farmhouse without telling him the terrible misfortune 
which had occurred. To find a pretext was easy enough. 
The priest hastened back to the wagon, and with well- 
affected calmness told the baron that it would be impos- 
sible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at 
present, that several suspicious-looking characters had 
been seen prowling about, and that they must be more 
prudent than ever, now they could rely upon the kindly 
intervention of Martial de Sairmeuse. At last, but not 
without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. 

“You desire it, cure,” he sighed, “so I obey. Come, 
Poignot, my boy, take me back to your father’s house.” 

Mme. d’Escorval took a seat in the cart beside her hus- 
band ; the priest watched them as they drove away, and 
not until the sound of their carriage wheels had died 
away in the distance did he venture to go back to the 
Borderie. 

He was ascending the stairs when he heard moans that 
seemed to issue from the chamber of death. The sound 
sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart. He darted 
up the staircase. A man was kneeling beside Marie - 
Anne, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his 
attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was 
so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s en- 


186 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


trance. Who was this mourner who had found his way 
to the house of death? After a moment, the priest 
divined who the intruder was, though he did not recog- 
nize him. “Jean!" he cried; “Jean Lacheneur !’* 

With a bound, the young man was on his feet, pale 
and menacing ; a flame of anger drying the tears in his 
eyes. 

“Who are yon?” he demanded, in a terrible voice. 
“What are you doing here? What do you wish with 
me?” 

By his peasant dress and by his long beard the former 
cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised that he 
was obliged to tell who he really was. As soon as he 
uttered his name, Jean uttered a cry of joy. 

“God has sent you here !” he exclaimed. “Marie- Anne 
cannot be dead I You, who liave saved so many others, 
will save her !” 

As the priest sadly pointed to heaven, Jean paused, his 
face more ghastly than before. He understood now that 
there was no hope. 

“Ah!” he murmured, with an accent of frightful de- 
spondency, “fate shows us no mercy. I have been 
watching over Marie- Anne, though from a distance; 
and this very evening I was coming to say to her, ‘Be- 
ware, sister — be cautious!’ ” 

“What ! you knew — ” 

“I knew she was in great danger , yes, monsieur. An 
hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a restaurant 
at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son entered. ‘Is this you, Jean?’ 
said he. ‘I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s 
house; when he observed me, he slunk away.’ I ran 
here like one crazed. But when fate is against a man, 
what can he do? I came too late I” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


187 


The abbe reflected for a moment. 

“Then, you suppose that it was Chupin?” 

“I do not suppose, sir; I swear that it was he — the 
miserable traitor ! — who committed this foul deed. ’ 

“Still, what motive could he have had?” 

Jean buret into one of those discordant laughs that are, 
perhaps, the most frightful signs of despair. 

“You may rest assured that the blood of the daughter 
will yield him a richer reward than did the father’s. 
Chupin has been the vile instrument ; but it was not he 
who conceived the crime. You will ha ve to seek higher 
for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the 
country ; in the midst of an army of valets at Sairmeuse, 
in short I” 

“Wretched man 1 what do you mean?” 

“What I say I” And, coldly, he added: “Martial de 
Sairmeuse is the assassin !” 

The priest recoiled, really appalled by the looks and 
manner of the grief -stricken man. 

“You are mad 1” he said, severely. 

But Jean gravely shook his head. “If I seem so to 
you, sir,” he replied, “it is only because you are igno- 
rant of Martial’s wild passion for Marie- Anne. He wished 
to make her his mistress. She had the audacity to refuse 
this honor ; that was a crime, for which she must be 
punished. When the Marquis de Sairmeuse became con- 
vinced that Lacheneur’s daughter would never be his, 
he poisoned her, that she might not belong to another!” 

Any attempt to convince Jean of the folly of his accu- 
sations would have been vain at that moment. No proofs 
would have convinced him. He would have closed his 
eyes to all evidence. 

“To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with 


188 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


him," thought the abbe; then, turning to Jean, he said: 
“We cannot allow the body of the poor girl to remain 
here upon the floor. Assist me, and we will place it 
upon the bed." 

Jean trembled from liead to foot, and his hesitation 
was apparent. “Very well,” he said, at dast, after a 
severe struggle. No one had ever slept upon this bed, 
which poor Chanlouineau had destined for Marie- Anne. 
“It shall be for her," he said to himself, “or for no one." 
And it was Marie- Anne who rested there first — dead. 

When this sad task was accomplished, he threw him- 
self into the same arm-chair in which Marie- Anne had 
breathed her last, and with his face buried in his hands, 
and his elbows supported upon his knees, he sat there as 
silent and motionless as the statues of sorrow placed 
above the last resting-places of the dead. 

The abbe knelt at the head of the bed and began the 
recital of the prayers for the dead, entreating God to 
grant peace and happiness in heaven to her who had 
suffered so much upon earth. But he prayed only with 
his lips. In spite of his efforts, his mind would persist 
in wandering. He was striving to solve the mystery 
that enshrouded Marie- Anne’s death. Had she been 
murdered? Could it be that she had committed suicide? 
This explanation recurred to him, but he could not be- 
lieve it. But, on the other hand, how could her death 
possibly be the result of crime? He had carefully ex- 
amined the room, and he had discovered nothing that 
betrayed the presence of a stranger. All that he could 
prove was, that his vial of arsenic was empty, and that 
Marie- Anne had been poisoned by the bouillon, a few 
drops of which were left in the bowl that was standing 
upon the mantel. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


189 


“When daylight comes,” thought the abbe, “I will 
look outside. ” 

When morning broke, he went into the garden, and 
made a careful examination of the premises. At first 
he saw nothing that gave him the least clew, and was 
about to abandon the investigations, when, upon enter- 
ing the little grove, he saw in the distance a large stain 
upon the grass. He went nearer— it was blood 1 Much 
excited, he summoned Jean, to inform him of the dis- 
covery. 

“Someone has been assassinated here!” said Lache- 
neur; “and it happened last night, for the blood has not 
had time to dry.” 

“The victim lost a great deal of blood,” the priest re- 
marked; “it might be possible to discover who he was 
by following up these stains.” 

“lam going to try,” responded Jean. “Go back to 
the house, sir. I will soon return.” 

A child might have followed the tracks of the wounded 
man, the blood-stains left in his passage were so frequent 
and distinct. These tell-tale marks stopped at ®hupin’s 
house. The door was closed. Jean rapped without the 
slightest hesitation. The old poacher’s eldest son opened 
the door, and Jean saw a strange spectacle. The traitor’s 
body had been thrown on the ground, in a comer of the 
room ; the bed was overturned and broken, all the straw 
had been torn from the mattress, and the wife and sons 
of the dead man, armed with pickaxes and spades, were 
wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed the floor 
of the hovel. They were seeking the hidden treasures. 

“What do you want?” demanded the widow, rudely. 

“Father Chupin.” 

“You can see plainly that he has been murdered,” re- 


190 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


plied one of the sons. And, brandishing his pick a few 
inches from Jean’s head, he exclaimed: “And you, per- 
haps, are the assassin. But that is for justice to deter- 
mine. Now, decamp; if you do not — ” 

Had he listened to the promptings of anger, Jean 
Lacheneur would certainly have attempted to make 
the Chupins repent their menaces. But a conflict was 
scarcely permissible, under the circumstances. He de- 
parted without a word, and hastened back to the Borderie. 
The death of Chupin overturned all his plans and greatly 
irritated him. “Iliad sworn that the vile wretch who 
betrayed my father should perish by my hand!” he 
murmured; “and now my vengeance has escaped me. 
Some one has robbed me of it !” Then he asked himself 
who the murderer could be. “Is it possible that Martial 
assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? To 
kill an accomplice is an effectual way of assuring one’s 
self of his silence.” 

He had reached the Borderie, and was about going up- 
stairs, when he thought he heard the sound of voices in 
the back room. “That is strange,” he said to himself. 
“Who can it be?” And, impelled by curiosity, he went 
and tapped upon the communicating door. The abbe 
instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door 
behind him. He was very pale, and visibly agitated. 

“Who is it?” inquired Jean, eagerly. 

“It is — it is. Guess who it is.” 

“How can I guess?” 

“Maurice d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois.” 

“My God!” 

“And it is a miracle that he has not been upstairs.” 

“But whence does he come? Why have we received 
no news of him?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


191 


“I do not know. Hs has been here only five minutes. 
Poor boy I After I told him that his father was safe, his 
first words were : ‘And Marie- Anne?’ He loves her more 
devotedly than ever. He comes with his heart full of 
her, confident and hopeful ; and I tremble— I fear to tell 
him the truth. ” 

“Oh, terrible ! terrible!’’ 

“I have warned you ; be prudent — and now, come in.” 
They entered the room together ; and Maurice and the 
old soldier greeted Jean with the most ardent expressions 
of friendship. They had not seen each other since the 
duel on the Reche, which had been interrupted by the 
arrival of the soldiers ; and when they parted that day 
they scarcely expected to meet again. 

‘ ‘And now we are together once more, ’ ’ said Maurice 
gayly, “and we have nothing to fear 1” 

Never had the unfortunate man seemed so cheerful ; 
and it was with the most jubilant air that he explained 
the reason of his long silence. 

“Three days after we crossed the frontier,” said he, 
“Corporal Bavois and I reached Turin. It was time, 
for we were tired out. We went to a small inn, and they 
gave us a room with two beds. That evening, while we 
were undressing, the corporal said to me : ‘I am capable 
of sleeping two whole days without waking.’ I, too, 
promised myself a rest of at least twelve hours. We 
reckoned without our host, as you will see. It was 
scarcely daybreak when we were awakened by a great 
tumult. A dozen rough-looking men entered our room 
\nd ordered us, in Italian, to dress ourselves. They were 
too strong for us, so we obeyed ; and an hour later we 
were in prison, confined in the same cell. Our reflec- 
tions, I confess, were not couleiir de rose. I well remem- 


192 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ber how the corporal said, again and again, in that cool 
way of his : ‘It will require four days to obtain our ex- 
tradition, three days to take us back to Montaignac — that 
is seven days ; it will take one day more to try me ; so I 
have, in all, eight days to live.’ ” 

“Upon my word! that was exactly what I thought,” 
said the old soldier, approvingly. 

“For five months,” continued Maurice, “instead of 
saying ‘good-night’ to each other, we said : ‘To-morrow 
they will come for us.’ But tliey did not come. We 
were kindly treated. They did not take away my 
money, and they willingly sold us little luxuries ; they 
also granted us two hours of exercise each day in the 
courtyard, and even loaned us books to read. In short, 
I should 'not have had any particular cause to complain, 
if I had been allowed to receive or to forward letters, or 
if I had been able to communicate with my father or 
with Marie- Anne. But we were in the secret cells, and 
were not allowed to have any intercourse with the other 
prisoners. At length, our detention seemed so strange, 
and became so insupportable to us, that we resolved to 
obtain some explanation of it, cost what it might. We 
changed our tactics. Up to that time we had been quiet 
and submissive; we suddenly became violent and in- 
tractable. We made the prison resound with our cries 
and protestations ; we were continually sending for the 
superintendent; we claimed the intervention of the 
French embassador. We were not obliged to wait long 
for the result. One fine afternoon the superintendent 
released us, not without expressing much regret at being 
deprived of the society of such amiable and charming 
guests. Our first act, as you may suppose, was to run to 
the embassador. We did not see that dignitary, but his 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


193 


secretary received us. He knit his brows when I told 
my story, and became excessively grave. I remember 
each word of his reply. ‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘I can swear 
that the persecution of which you have been the object 
in France had nothing whatever to do with your deten- 
tion here. ’ And, as I expressed my astonishment : ‘One 
moment,’ he added. ‘I shall express my opinion very 
frankly. One of your enemies — I leave you to discover 
which one — must exert a very powerful influence in 
Turin. You were in his way, perhaps ; he had you im- 
prisoned by the Piedmontese police.’ ” 

With a heavy blow of his clinched fist, Jean Lache- 
neur made the table beside him reel. “Ah! the secre- 
tary was right!” he exclaimed. “Maurice, it was Mar- 
tial de Sairmeuse who caused your arrest — ” 

“Or the Marquis de Courtornieu,” interrupted the abbe, 
with a warning glance at Jean. 

A wrathful light gleamed for an instant in the eyes of 
Maurice; but it vanished almost immediately, and he 
shrugged his shoulders carelessly. 

“Nonsense !” said he, “I do not wish to trouble myself 
any more about the past. My father is well again ; that 
is the main thing. We can easily find some way of get- 
ting him safely across the frontier. Marie- Anne and I, 
by our devotion, will strive to make him forget that my 
rashness almost cost him his life. He is so good, so in- 
dulgent to the faults of others. We will take up our 
residence in Italy, or’ in Switzerland. You will accom- 
pany us. Monsieur I’Abbe, and you also, Jean. As for 
you, corporal, it is decided that you belong to our 
family.” • ^ 

Nothing could be more horrible than to see this man, 
upon whose life such a terrible blight was about to fall, 


194 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


so briglit and full of hope and confidence. Tlie impres- 
sion produced upon Jean and the abbe was so terrible 
that, in spite of their efforts, it showed itself in their 
faces, and Maurice remarked their agitation. 

“What is the matter?” he inquired, in evident sur- 
prise. Tliey trembled, hung their heads, but did not say 
a word. The unfortunate man’s astonishment changed 
to a vague, inexpressible fear. He enumerated all the 
misfortunes which could possibly have befallen him. 
“What has happened?” he asked, in a stifled voice. 
“My father is safe, is he not? You said that my mother 
would desire nothing, if I were with her again. Is it 
Marie- Anne — ” He hesitated. 

“Courage, Maurice !” murmured the abbe. “Courage !” 

The stricken man tottered as if about to fall ; his face 
grew whiter than the plastered wall against which he 
leaned for support. 

“ Mar ie- Anne is dead !” he exclaimed. Jean and the 
abbe were silent. “Dead!” Maurice repeated — “and no 
secret voice warned me ! Dead ! — when?” 

“She died only last night,” replied Jean. 

Maurice rose. “Last night!” said he. “In that case, 
then, she is still here. Where? — upstairs?” 

And without waiting for any response, he darted tow- 
ard the staircase, so quickly that neither Jean nor the 
abbe had time to intercept him. With three bounds he 
reached the chamber ; he walked straight to the bed, and 
with a firm hand turned back the sheet that hid the face 
of the dead. He recoiled with a heart-broken cry. Was 
this indeed the beautiful, the radiant Marie- Anne, whom 
he had loved to his own undoing ! He did not recognize 
heri He could not recognize these distorted features, 
this face swollen and discolored by poison, these eyes 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


195 


which were almost concealed by the purple swelling 
around them. 

When Jean and the priest entered the room, they found 
him standing with head thrown back, eyes dilated with 
terror, and rigid arm extended toward the corpse. 

“Maurice, ” said the priest, gently, “be calm. Courage !” 

He turned with an expression of complete bewilder- 
ment upon his features. 

“Yes,” he faltered, “that is what I need — courage!” 
He staggered ; they were obliged to support him to an 
arm-chair. 

“Be a man!” continued the priest; “where is your 
energy? To live, is to suffer !” * 

He listened, but did not seem to comprehend. 

“Live!” he murmured, “why should I desire to live, 
since she is dead?” 

The dread light of insanity glittered in his dry eyes. 
The abbe was alarmed. 

“If he does not weep, he will lose his reason!” he 
thought. And, in an imperious voice, he said: “You 
have no right to despair thus ; you owe a sacred duty to 
your child !” 

The recollection which had given Marie-Anne strength 
to hold death at bay for a moment saved Maurice from 
the dangerous torpor into which he was sinking. He 
trembled as if he had received an electric shock, and 
springing from his chair : ^ 

“That is true !” he cried. “Take me to my child !” 

“Not just now, Maurice; wait a little.” 

“Where is it? Tell me where it is !” 

“I cannot; I do not know.” 

An expression of unspeakable anguish stole over the 
face of Maurice, and in a husky voice he said : ■ # 


196 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“What! you do not know? Did she not confide in 
you?” 

”No. I suspected her secret. I, alone—” 

“You, alone. Then the child is dead, perhaps. Even 
if it is living, who can tell me where it is?” 

“We shall undoubtedly find something that will give 
us a clew.” 

“You are right,” faltered the wretched man. “When 
Marie- Anne knew that her life was in danger, she would 
not have forgotten her child. Those who cared for her 
in her last moments must have received some message 
for me. I wish to see those who watched over her. Who 
were 'they?” The priest averted his face. “I asked you 
who was with her when she died?” repeated Maurice, in 
a sort of frenzy. And, as the abbe remained silent, a 
terrible light dawned on the mind of the stricken man. 
He understood the cause of Marie- Anne’s distorted feat- 
ures now. “She perished the victim of a crime I” he 
exclaimed. “Some monster has killed her. If she died 
such a death, our child is lost forever ! And it was I 
who recommended, who commanded the greatest pre- 
cautions ! Ah ! it is a curse upon me I” He sank back 
in his chair, overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, and 
silent tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. 

“He is saved 1” thought the abbe, whose heart bled a': 
the sight of such despair. 

Suddenly some one plucked him by the sleeve. It was 
Jean Lacheneur, and he drew the priest into the embras- 
ure of a window. 

“What is this about a child?” he asked, harshly.* 

A flood of crimson suffused the brow of the priest. 
“You have heard,” he responded, laconically. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


197 


“Am I to understand that Marie- Anne was the mistress 
of Maurice, and that she had a child by him? Is this 
true? I will not — I can not believe it! She, whom I 
revered as a saint ! Did her pure forehead and her chaste 
looks lie? And he — Maurice —he whom I love as a 
Drother 1 So, his friendship was only a mask assumed 
to enable him to steal our honor!” He hissed these 
words through his set teeth in such low tones that Mau- 
rice, absorbed in his agony of grief, did not overhear 
him. “But how did she conceal her shame?” he con- 
tinued. “No one suspected it — absolutely no one. And 
what has she done with her child? Appalled by a dread 
of disgrace, did she commit the crime committed by so 
many other ruined and forsaken women? Did she mur- 
der her own child?” A hideous smile curved his thin 
lips. “If the child is alive,’ he added, “I will find 
it, and Maurice shall be punishsd for his perfidy as he 
deserves !” 

He paused ; the sound of horses’ hoofs upon the road 
attracted his attention and that of Abbe Midon. They 
glanced out of the window and saw a horseman stop be- 
fore the little foot-path, alight from his horse, throw the 
reins to his groom, and advance toward the Borderie. 
At the sight of the visitor, Jean Lacheneur uttered tho 
frightful howl of an infuriated wild beast. 

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse here !” he exclaimed. He 
sprang to Maurice, and shaking him violently, he cried : 
“Up! here is Martial, Marie- Anne’s murderer! Up! he 
is coming ! he is at our mercy !” 

Maurice sprang up in a fury of passion, but the abbe 
darted to the door and intercepted the infuriated men 
as they were about to leave the room. 

“Not a word, young men, not a threat!” he said, im- 


198 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


peiiously. “I forbid it. At least, respect the dead who 
is lying here !” 

There was such an irresistible authority in his words 
and glance, that Jean and Maurice stood as if turned to 
stone. Before the priest had time to say more. Martial 
was there. He did not cross the threshold. With a 
glance he took in the whole scene ; he turned very pale, 
but not a gesture, not a word escaped his lips. Wonder- 
ful as was his accustomed control over himself, he could 
not articulate a syllable ; and it was only by pointing to 
the bed upon which Marie- Anne’s lifeless form was re- 
posing, that he asked an explanation. 

“She was infamously poisoned last evening!” replied 
the abbe, sadly. 

Maurice, forgetting the priest’s commands, stepped 
forward. 

“She was alone and defenseless. I have been at liberty 
only two days. But I know the name of the man who 
had me arrested in Turin and thrown into prison. They 
told me the coward’s name!” Instinctively, Martial 
recoiled. “It was you, infamous wretch !” exclaimed 
Maurice. “You confess your guilt, scoundrel?” 

Once again the abbe interposed ; he threw himself be- 
tween the rivals, persuaded that Martial was about to 
attack Maurice. But no ; the Marquis de Sairmeuse had 
resumed the haughty and indifferent manner which was 
habitual to him. He took from his pocket a bulky en- 
velope, and throwing it upon the table : 

“Here,” he said, coldly, “is what I was bringing to 
Mademoiselle Lacheneur. It contains first a safe con- 
duct from his majesty for Monsieur d’Escorval. From 
this moment, he is at liberty to leave Poignot’s farm- 
house and return to Escorval. He is free, he is saved, 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


199 


he is granted a new trial, and there can be no doubt of 
his acquittal. Here is also a decree of non-complicity 
rendered in favor of Abbe Midon, and an order from the 
bishop which re-instates him as Cure of Sairmeuse ; and, 
lastly, a discharge, drawn up in due form, and an ac- 
knowledged right to a pension in the name of Corporal 
Bavois.” 

He paused, and as his astonished hearers stood rooted 
to their places with wonder, he turned and approached 
Marie- Anne’s bedside. With hand uplifted to heaven 
over the lifeless form of her whom he had loved, and in 
a voice that would have made the murderess tremble in 
her innermost soul, he said, solemnly: “To you, Marie- 
Anne, I swear that I will avenge you !” For a few sec- 
onds he stood motionless, then, suddenly, he stooped, 
pressed a kiss upon the dead girl’s brow, and left the 
room. 

“And you think that man can be guilty?” exclaimed 
the abbe. “You see, Jean, that you are mad !” 

“And this last insult to my dead sister is an honor, I 
‘suppose !” said Jean, with a furious gesture. 

“And the wretch binds my hands by saving my father I ’ ’ 
exclaimed Maurice. • 

From his place by the window the abbe saw Martial 
remount his horse. But the marquis did not take the 
road to Montaignac. It was toward the Chateau de 
Courtornieu that he hastened. 


CHAPTER XLYHI. 

The reason of Mme. Blanche had sustained a frightful 
shock, when Chupin was obliged to lift her and carry 
her from Marie- Anne’s chamber. But she lost conscious- 


200 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ness entirely when she saw the old poacher stricken down 
by her side. 

On and after that night, Aunt Medea took her revenge 
for all the slights she had received. Scarcely tolerated 
until then, at Courtornieu, she henceforth made herself 
respected, and even feared. She, who usually swooned 
if a kitten hurt itself, did not utter a cry. Her extreme 
fear gave her the courage that not infrequently animates 
cowards when they are in some dire extremity. She 
seized the arm of her bewildered niece, and, by dint of 
dragging and pushing, had her back at the chateau in 
much less time than it had taken them to go to the 
Borderie. 

It was half -past one o’clock when they reached the 
little garden gate by which they had left the grounds. 
No one in the chateau was aware of their long absence. 
This was due to several different circumstances. First, 
to the precautions taken by Blanche, who had given 
orders, before going out, that no one should come to 
her room, on any pretext whatever, unless she rang. It 
also chanced to be the birthday of the marquis’s valet de 
chambre. The servants had dined more sumptuously 
than usual. They had toasts and songs over their des- 
sert ; and at the conclusion of the repast, they amused 
themselves by an extempore ball. 

They were still dancing at half-past one ; all the doors 
were open, and the two ladies succeeded in gaining the 
chamber of Blanche without being observed. When the 
doors of the apartment liad been securely closed, and 
when there was no longer any fear of listeners. Aunt 
Medea attacked her niece. 

“Now you will explain what happened at the Borderie; 
and what you were doing there?’’ she inquired. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


201 


Blanche shuddered. “Why do you wish to know?” 
she asked. 

“Because I suffered agony during the three hours that 
I spent in waiting for you. What was the meaning of 
those despairing cries that I heard? Why did you call 
for aid? I heard a deatli-rattle that made my hair stand 
on end with terror I Why was it necessary for Chupin 
to bring you out in his arms?” 

Aunt Medea would have packed her trunks, perhaps, 
that very evening, had she seen the glance which her 
niece bestowed upon her. Blanche longed for power to 
annihilate this relative — this witness who might ruin 
her by a word, but whom she would ever have beside 
her, a living reproach for her crime. 

“You do not answer me,” insisted Aunt Medea. 

Blanche was trying to decide whether it would be bet- 
ter for her to reveal the truth, horrible as it was, or to 
invent some plausible explanation. To confess all ! It 
would be intolerable. She would place herself, body 
and soul, in Aunt Medea’s power. But, on the other 
hand, if she deceived her, was it not more than probable 
that her aunt would betray her by some involuntary ex- 
clamation when she heard of the crime which had been 
committed at the Borderie? “For she is so stupid!’^ 
thought Blanche. 

She felt that it would be the wisest plan, under such 
circumstances, to be perfectly frank, to teach her rela- 
tive her lesson, and to imbue her wtth some of her own 
firmness. Having come to this conclusion, she disdained 
all concealment. 

“Ah, well!” she said, “I was jealous of Marie-Anne. 
I thought she was Martial’s mistress. I was half crazed, 
and I killed her !” 


202 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


She expected despairing cries, or a fainting fit ; noth- 
ing of the kind. Stupid though Aunt Medea was, she 
had divined the truth before she interrogated her niece. 
Besides, the insults she had received for years had ex- 
tinguished every generous sentiment, dried up the springs 
of emotion, and destroyed every particle of moral sen- 
sibility she had ever possessed. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “it is terrible! What if it 
should be discovered?” Then she shed a few tears, but 
not more than she had often wept for some trifle. 

Blanche breathed more freely. Surely she could count 
upon the silence and absolute submission of her depend- 
ent relative. Convinced of this, she began to recount 
all the details of the frightful drama which had been 
enacted at the Borderie. She yielded to a desire which 
was stronger than her own will ; to the wild longing that 
sometimes unbinds the tongue of the worst criminals, and 
forces them — irresistibly impels them — to talk of their 
crimes, even when they distrust their confidant. 

But when she came to the proofs which had convinced 
her of her lamentable mistake, she suddenly paused in 
dismay. That certificate of marriage signed by the 
Cure of Vigano ; what had she done with it? where was 
it? She remembered holding it in her hands. She 
sprang up, examined the pocket of her dress and uttered 
a cry of joy. She had it safe! She threw it into a 
drawer, and turned the key. Aunt Medea wished to 
retire to her own rSom, but Blanche entreated her to 
remain. She was unwilling to be left alone— she dared 
not— she was afraid. And as if she desired to silence 
the inward voice that tormented her, she talked with 
extreme volubility, repeating again and again that she 
was ready to do anything in expiation of her crime, and 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


203 


that she would brave impossibilities to recover. Marie- 
Anne’s child. 

And certainly, the task was both difficult and danger- 
ous. If she sought the child openly, it would be equiv- 
alent to a confession of guilt. She would be compelled 
to act secretly, and with great caution. 

“But I shall succeed!” she said; “I will spare no ex- 
pense!” And, remembering her vow, and the threats 
of her dying victim, she added: “I must succeed! I 
have sworn — and I was forgiven under those conditions !” 

Astonishment dried the ever ready tears of Aunt Medea. 
That her niece, with her dreadful crime still fresh in her 
mind, could coolly reason, deliberate, and make plans 
for the future, seemed to her incomprehensible. 

“What an iron will!” she thought. 

But in her bewilderment she quite overlooked some- 
thing that would have enlightened any ordinary ob- 
server. Blanche was seated upon her bed, her hair was 
unbound, her eyes were glittering with delirium, and 
her incoherent words and her excited gestures betrayed 
the frightful anxiety that was torturing her. And she 
talked and talked, exclaiming, questioning Aunt Medea, 
and forcing her to reply, only that she might escape 
from her own thoughts. 

Morning had dawned some tijiie before, and the 
servants were heard bustling about the chateau, and 
Blanche, oblivious to all around Mr, was still explain- 
ing how she could, in less than a year, restore Marie 
Anne’s child to Maurice d’Escorval. She paused 
abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Instinct had 
suddenly warned her of the danger she incurred in 
making the slightest change in her habits. She sent 


• 204 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Aunt Medea away; then, at the usual hour, rang for 
her maid. • 

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and she was just com- 
pleting her toilet, when the ringing of the bell announced 
a visitor. Almost immediately a maid appeared, evi- 
dently ill a state of great excitement. “What is it?” in- 
quired Blanche, eagerly. “Who has come?’’ . 

“Ah! madame— that is, mademoiselle, if you only 
knew—’’ 

Will yon speak!’’ 

“ The Marquis de Sairmeuse is below, in the blue draw- 
ing-room ; and he begs mademoiselle to grant him a few 
moments’ conversation. ’ ’ 

Had a thunderbolt riven the earth at the feet of the 
murderess, she could not have been more terrified. 

“All must have been discovered !’’ This was her first 
thought. That alone would have brought Martial there. 

She almost decided to reply that she was not at home, 
or that she was extremely ill ; but reason told her that 
she was alarming herself needlessly, perhaps, and that, 
in any case, the worst was preferable to suspense. 

“Tell the marquis that I will be there in a moment,” 
she replied. 

She desired a few minutes of solitude to compose her 
features, to regain her self-possession, if possible, and to 
conquer the nervous trembling that made her shake like 
a leaf. But just as she was most disquieted by the 
thought of her peril, a sudden inspiration brought a 
malicious smile to her lip. 

“Ah !” she thought, “my agitation will seem perfectly 
natural. It may even be made of service !” As she, de- 
scended the grand staircase, she could not help saying to 
herself : “Martial’s presence here is incomprehensible !” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


205 


It was certainly very extraordinary ; and it had not 
been without much hesitation that he resolved upon this 
painful step. But it was the only means of procuring 
several important documents which were indispensable 
in the revision of M. d’Escorval’s case. These docu- 
ments, after the baron’s condemnation, had been left 
in the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu. Now that 
he had lost his reason, it was impossible to ask him for 
them ; and Martial was obliged to apply to the daughter 
for permission to search for them among her father’s 
papers. This was why Martial said to himself, that 
morning : 

‘T will carry the baron’s safe conduct to Marie- Anne, 
and then I will push on to Courtornieu I” 

He arrived at the Borderie gay and confident, his 
heart full of hope. Alas! Marie- Anne was dead. No 
one would ever know what a terrible blow it had been 
to Martial ; and his conscience told him that he was not 
free from blame; that he had, at least, rendered the 
execution of the crime an easy matter. For it was in- 
deed he who, by abusing his influence, had caused the 
arrest of Maurice at Turin. But though he was capable 
of the basest perfidy, when his love was at stake, he was 
incapable of virulent animosity. 

Marie- Anne was dead ; he had it in his power to re- 
voke the benefits he had conferred, but the thought oi 
doing so never once occurred to him. And when Jean 
and Maurice insulted him, he revenged himself only by 
overwhelming them by his magnanimity. When he 
left the Borderie, pale as a ghost, his lips still cold from 
the kiss pressed on the brow of the dead, he said to him- 
self : “For her sake I will go to Courtornieu. In mem- 
ory of her, the baron must be saved !” 


206 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


By the expression on the faces of the valets when he 
dismounted in the courtyard of the chateau and asked 
to see Mme. Blanche, the marquis was again reminded 
of the profound sensation which this unexpected visit 
would produce. But what did it matter to him? He 
was passing through one of those crises in which the 
mind can conceive of no further misfortune, and is, 
therefore, indifferent to everything. 

Still, he trembled when they ushered *him into the 
blue drawing-room. He remembered the room well. 
It was here that Blanche had been wont to receive him 
in days gone by, when his fancy was vacillating between 
her and Marie- Anne. How many pleasant hours they 
had passed together here ! He seemed to see Blanche 
again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and 
laughing. Her naivete was affected, perhaps, but was 
it any the less charming on that account? 

At this very moment Blanche entered the room. She 
looked so careworn and sad that he scarcely knew her. 
His heart was touched by the look of patient sorrow im- 
printed upon her features. 

“How much you must have suffered, Blanche,” he 
murmured, scarcely knowing what he said. 

It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She 
saw that he knew nothing of her crime. She noticed 
his emotion, and saw the profit she could derive from it. 

“I can never cease to regret having displeased you,” 
she replied, humbly and sadly. “I shall never be con- 
soled 1” 

She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man’s 
heart. For there is no man so skeptical, so cold, or so 
hlase that his vanity is not pleased with the thought that 
a woman is dying for his sake. There is no man who is 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


207 


not moved by this most delicious flattery, and who is not 
ready and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in ex- 
change for such devotion. 

“Is it possible that you could forgive me?” stammered 
Martial. 

The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent 
iiim from reading in her eyes a weakness of which she 
was ashamed. It was the most eloquent of replies. 

But Martial said no more on this subject. He made 
known his petition, which was granted ; then fearing, 
perhaps, to promise too much, he said : 

“Since you do not forbid it, Blanche, I will return — 
to morrow — another day.” 

As he rode back to Montaignac, Martial’s thoughts 
were busy. “She really loves me,” he thought; “that 
pallor, that weakness could not be feigned. Poor girl ! 
she is my wife, after all. The reasons that influenced 
me in my rupture with her father exist no longer, and 
the Marquis de Courtornieu may be regarded as dead.” 

All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on 
the public square when Martial passed through the vil- 
lage. They had just heard of the murder at the Borderie, 
and the abbe was now closeted with the justice of the 
peace, relating the circumstances of the poisoning. 
After a long inquest, the following verdict was ren- 
dered : “That a man known as Chupin, a notoriously bad 
character, had entered the house of Marie- Anne Lache- 
neur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle 
poison with her food.” The report added that: “Said 
Chupin had been himself assassinated, soon after his 
crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were 
unknown.” 

But this affair interested the community much less 


208 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


than the visits which Martial was paying to Mme. 
Blanche. It was soon rumored that the Marquis and 
the Marquise de Sairmeuse were reconciled, and in a 
few weeks they left for Paris with the intention of re- 
siding there permanently. 

A few days after their departure, the eldest of the 
Chupins announced his determination of taking up his 
abode in the same great city. Some of his friends en- 
deavored to dissuade him, assuring him that he would 
certainly die of starvation. “Nonsense !" he replied, 
with singular assurance; “I, on the contrary, have an 
idea that I shall not want for anything there.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

Time gradually heals all wounds, and in less than a 
year it was difficult to discern any trace of the fierce 
whirlwind of passion which had devastated the peaceful 
valley of the Oiselle. What remained to attest the re- 
ality of all those events, which, though they were so 
recent, had already been relegated to the domain of the 
legendary? 

A charred ruin on the Reche. 

A grave in the cemetery upon which was inscribed i 
“Marie- Anne Lacheneur, died at the age of 
TWENTY. Pray for her!” 

Only a few, the oldest men and the politicians of the 
village, forgot their solicitude in regard to the crops to 
remember this episode. Sometimes, during the long 
winter evenings, when they had gathered at the Boeuf 
Couronne, they laid down their greasy cards and gravely 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


209 


discussed the events of the past years. They never failed 
to remark that almost all the actors in that bloody drama 
at Montaignac had, in common parlance, “come to a bad 
end.” 

Victors and vanquished seemed to be pursued by the 
same inexorable fatality. Look at the names already 
upon the fatal list! Lacheneur, beheaded; Chanloui- 
neau, shot; Marie-Anne, poisoned; Chupin, the traitor, 
assassinated. ' The Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or 
rather survived ; but death would have seemed a mercy 
in comparison with such total annihilation of intelli- 
gence. He had fallen below the level of the brute, 
which is, at least, endowed with instinct. Since the 
departure of his daughter he had been cared for by two 
servants, who did not allow him to give them much 
trouble, and when they desired to go out they shut him 
up, not in his chamber, but in the cellar, to prevent his 
ravings and shrieks from being heard from without. 

If people supposed, for a while, that the Sairmeuse 
would escape the fate of the others, they were mistaken. 
It was not long before the curse fell upon them. 

One fine morning, in the month of December, the duke 
left the chateau to take part in a wolf -hunt in the neigh- 
borhood. At nightfall his horse returned, panting, cov- 
ered with foam, and riderless. What had become of it;^ 
master? A search was instituted at once, and all night 
long twenty men, bearing torches, wandered througl; 
the woods, shouting and calling at the top of their 
voices. Five days went by, and the search for the miss- 
ing man was almost abandoned, when a shepherd lad, 
pale with fear, came to the chateau one morning to tell 
them that he had discovered, at the base of a precipice, 
the bloody and mangled body of the Duke de Sairmeuse. 


210 


MONSIEUR UECOQ. 


It seemed strange that such an excellent rider should 
have met with such a fate. There might have been some 
doubt as to its being an accident, had it not been for the 
explanation given by the grooms. “The duke was rid- 
ing an exceedingly vicious beast,” said these men. “She 
was always taking fright and shying at everything.” 

The following week Jean Lacheneur left the neighbor- 
hood. The conduct of this singular man had caused 
much comment. When Marie- Anne died, he at first 
refused his inheritance. 

“I wish nothing that came to her through Chanloui- 
ueau,” he said everywhere, thus calumniating the mem- 
ory of his sister, as he had calumniated her when alive. 

Then, after a short absence, and without any apparent 
reason, he suddenly changed his mind. He not only ac- 
cepted the property, but made all possible haste to obtain 
possession of it. He made many excuses ; and, if one 
might believe him, he was not acting in his own inter- 
est, but merely conforming to the wishes of his deceased 
sister ; and he declared that not a penny would go into 
his pockets. 

This much is certain : as soon as he obtained legal pos- 
session of the estate, he sold all the property, troubling 
himself but little in regard to the price he received, pro- 
vided the purchasers paid cash. He reserved only the 
furniture of the sumptuously adorned chamber at tho 
Borderie. These articles he burned. 

This strange act was the talk of the neighborhood. 
“The poor young man has lost his reason !” was the al- 
most universal opinion. And those who doubted it, 
doubted it no longer when it became known that Jean 
Lacheneur had formed an engagement with a company 
of strolling players who stopped at Montaignac for a few 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


211 


days. But the young man had not wanted for good ad- 
vice and kind friends. M. d’Escorval and the abbe had 
exerted all their eloquence to induce him to return to 
Paris and complete his studies ; but in vain. 

The necessity for concealment no longer existed, either 
in the case of the baron or the priest. Thanks to Martial 
de Sairmeuse, they were now installed, the one in the 
presbytery, the other at Escorval, as in days gone by. 

Acquitted at his new trial, restored to the possession of 
his property, reminded of his frightful fall only by a 
very slight lameness, the baron would have deemed him- 
self a fortunate man had it not been for his great anxiety 
on his son’s account. 

Poor Maurice I his heart was broken by the sound of 
the clods of earth falling upon Marie- Anne’s coffin; and 
his very life now seemed dependent upon the hope of 
finding his child. Assured of the powerful assistance of 
Abbe Midon, he had confessed all to his father, and con- 
fided his secret to Corporal Bavois, who was an honored 
guest at Escorval ; and these devoted friends had prom- 
ised him all possible aid. 

The task was very difficult, however, and certain reso- 
lutions on the part of Maurice greatly diminished the 
chance of success. Unlike Jean, he was determined tc 
guard religiously the honor of the dead; and he hac. 
made his friends promise that Marie- Anne’s name shouiu 
not be mentioned in prosecuting the search. 

“We shall succeed, all the same,’’ said the abbe kindly ; 
“with time and patience any mystery can be solved.’’ 

He divided the department into a certain number of 
districts; then one of the little band went each day 
from house to house questioning the inmates, but not 
v/ithout extreme caution, for fear of arousing suspicion. 


212 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


for a peasant becomes intractable at once if his suspicions 
are aroused. But the weeks went by, and the quest was 
fruitless. Maurice was deeply discouraged. 

“My child died on coming into the world,” he said, 
again and again. 

But the abbe reassured him. “I am morally certain 
that such was not the case,” he replied. “I know, by 
Marie- Anne’s absence, the date of her child’s birth. I 
saw her after her recovery; she was comparatively gay 
and smiling. Draw your own^conclusions.” 

“And yet there is not a nook or corner for miles around 
which we have not explored.” 

“True; but we must extend the circle of our investiga- 
tions.” 

The priest, now, was only striving to gain time, know- 
ing full well that it is the sovereign balm for all sorrows. 
His confidence, which had been very great at first, had 
been sensibly diminished by the responses of an old 
woman, who passed for one of the greatest gossips in 
the community. Adroitly interrogated, the worthy 
dame replied that she knew nothing of such a child, 
but that there must be one in the neighborhood, since it 
was the third time she had been questioned on the sub- 
ject. Intense as was his surprise, the abbe succeeded in 
hiding it. He set the old gossip to talking, and after 
a two hours’ conversation he arrived at the conclusion 
that two persons beside Maurice were searching for 
Marie- Anne’s child. Why, with what aim, and who 
these persons could be, the abbe was unable to ascertain. 

“Ah! rascals have their uses, after all,” he thought. 
“K we only had a man like Chupin to set upon the 
track I” 

But the old poacher was dead, and his eldest son— the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


313 


one who knew Blanche de Courtornieu’s secret — was in 
Paris. Only the widow and the second son remained 
in Sairmeuse. They had not, as yet, succeeded in dis- 
covering the twenty thousand francs, but the fever for 
gold was burning in their veins, and they persisted in 
their search . From morning until night the mother and 
son toiled on, until the earth around their hut had been 
explored to the depth of six feet. A word dropped by a 
peasant one day put an end to these researches. 

“Really, my boy,”he said, addressing young Chupin, 
“I did not suppose you were such a fool as to persist in 
hunting birds’ nests after the birds had flown. Your 
brother, who is in Paris, can undoubtedly tell you where 
the treasure was concealed.’* 

The younger Chupin uttered the fierce roar of a wild 
beast. 

“Holy Virgin! you are right !” he exclaimed. “Wait 
until I get money enough to take me to Paris, and we 
will see.” 


CHAPTER L. 

Martial de Sairmeuse’s unexpected visit to the 
Chateau de Courtornieu had alarmed Aimt Medea even 
more than Blanche. In ten seconds, more ideas passed 
through her brain than had visited it for ten years. She 
saw the gendarmes at the chateau ; she saw her niece 
arrested, incarcerated in the Montaignac prison, and 
brought before the Court of Assizes. If this were all 
she had to fear ! But suppose she, too, were compro- 
mised, suspected of complicity, dragged before the judge, 
and even accused of being the sole culprit ! 


214 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


. Finding the suspense intolerable, she left her room, 
and, stealing on tiptoe to the great drawing-room, she 
applied her ear to the door of the little blue salon, in 
which Blanche and Martial were seated. The conversa- 
tion which she heard convinced her that her fears were 
groundless. She drew a long breath, as if a mighty bur- 
den had been lifted from her breast. But a new idea, 
which was to grow, flourish, and bear fruit, had just 
taken root in her brain. When Martial left the room. 
Aunt Medea at once opened the communicating door and 
entered the salon, thus avowing that she had been a 
listener. Twenty-four hours earlier she would not have 
dreamed of committing such an enormity. 

“Well, Blanche, we were frightened at nothing I” she 
exclaimed. 

Blanche did not reply. She was deliberating, forcing 
herself to weigh the probable consequences of all these 
events which had succeeded each other with such mar- 
velous rapidity. 

“Perhaps the hour of my revenge is almost here,” 
murmured Blanche, as if communing with herself. 

“What do you say?” inquired Aunt Medea, with evi- 
dent curiosity. 

“I say, aunt, that in less than a month I shall be Mar= 
quise de Sairmeuse in reality as well as in name. My 
husband will return to me, and then— oh ! then.” 

“God grant it!” said Aunt Medea, hypocritically. In 
her secret heart she had but little faith in this predic- 
tion, and whether it was realized or not mattered little 
to her. “Still another proof that your jealousy led you 
astray, and that— that what you did at the Borderie was 
unnecessary,” she said, in that low tone that accomplices 
always use in speaking of their crime. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


215 


Such had been the opinion of Blanche ; but she now 
shook her head, and gloomily replied : 

‘ ‘You are wrong; that which took place at the Borderie 
has restored my husband to me. I understand it all now. 
It is true that Marie- Anne was not Martial’s mistress ; 
but Martial loved her. He loved her, and the rebuffs 
which he received only increased his passion. It was 
for her sake that he abandoned me ; and never, while 
she lived, would he have thought of me. His emotion 
on seeing me was the remnant of the emotion which had 
been awakened by another. His tenderness was only 
the expression of his sorrow. Whatever happens, I 
shall have only her leavings — what she has disdained!” 
the young marquise added bitterly ; and her eyes flashed, 
and she stamped her foot in ungovernable anger. ‘ ‘And 
shall I regret what I have done !” she exclaimed ; “never ! 
— no, nevermore !” From that moment she was herself 
again, brave and determined. 

But horrible fears assailed her when the inquest began. 
Officials came from Montaignac charged with investigat- 
ing the affair. They examined a host of witnesses, and 
there was even talk of sending to Paris for one of those 
detectives skilled in unraveling all the mysteries of 
crime. Aunt Medea was half crazed with terror ; and 
her fear was so apparent that it caused Blanche great 
anxiety. 

“You will end by betraying us!” she remarked, one 
evening. 

“Ah ! my terror is beyond my control.” 

“If that is the case, do not leave your room.” 

“It would be more prudent, certainly.” 

“You can say that you are not well ; your meals shall 
be served in your own apartment.” 


216 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Aunt’ Medea’s face brightened. In her inmost heart, 
she was enraptured. To have her meals served in her 
own room, in her bed in the morning, and on a little 
table by the fire in the evening, had long been the am- 
bition and the dream of the poor dependent. But how 
to accomplish it ! Two or three times, being a trifle in- 
disposed, she had ventured to ask if her breakfast might 
be brought to her room, but her request had been harshly 
refused. “If Aunt Medea is hungry, she will come down 
and take her place at the table, as usual,” had been the 
response of Mme. Blanche. 

To be treated in this way in a chateau where there 
were a dozen servants standing about idle, was hard in- 
deed. But now — Every morning, in obedience to a 
formal order from Blanche, the cook came up to receive 
Aunt Medea’s commands ; she was permitted to dictate 
the bill of fare each day, and to order the dishes that she 
preferred. 

These new joys awakened many strange thoughts in 
her mind, and dissipated much of the regret which she 
had felt for the crime at the Borderie. The inquest was 
the subject of all her conversation with her niece. They 
had all the latest information in regard to the facts de- 
veloped by the investigation through the butler, who 
took a great interest in such matters, and who had won 
the good will of the agents from Montaignac, by making 
them familiar with the contents of his wine cellar. 

Through him, Blanche and her aunt learned that sus- 
picion pointed to the deceased Chupin. Had he not been 
seen prowling around the Borderie on the very evening 
that the crime was committed? The testimony of the 
young peasant who had warned Jean Lacheneur seemed 
decisive. The motive was evident, at least, every one 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


217 


thought so. Twenty persons had heard Chupin declare, 
with frightful oaths, that he should never be tranquil in 
mind while a Lacheneur was left upon earth. 

So that which might have ruined Blanche saved her ; 
and the death of the old poacher seemed really providen- 
tial. Why should she suspect that Chupin had revealed 
her secret before his death? When the butler told her 
that the judges and the police agents had returned to 
Montaignac, she had great difficulty in concealing her 
joy. 

“There is no longer anything to fear,” she said to Aunt 
Medea. 

She had, indeed, escaped the justice of man. There 
remained the justice of God. A few weeks before, this 
thought of “the justice of God” might, perhaps, have 
brought a smile to the lips of Mme. Blanche. She then 
’^garded it as an imaginary evil, designed to hold timor- 
ous spirits in check. On the morning that followed her 
crime, she almost shrugged her shoulders at the thouglit 
of Marie-Anne’s dying threats. She remembered her 
promise; but she did not intend to fulfill it. She had 
considered the matter, and she saw the terrible risk to 
which she exposed herself if she endeavored to find the 
missing child. “The father will be sure to discover it !” 
she thought. 

But she was to realize the power of her victim’s threats 
that same evening. Overcome with fatigue, she retired 
to her room at an early hour, and instead of reading, as 
she was accustomed to do before retiring, she extin- 
guished her candle as soon as she had undressed, saying : 
‘T must sleep.” 

But sleep had fled. Her crime was ever in her 
thoughts ; it rose before her in all its horror and atroc- 


218 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ity. She knew that she was lying upon lier bed, at 
Courtornieu ; and yet it seemed as if she was there in 
Chanlouineau’s house, pouring out poison, then watch- 
ing its effects, concealed in the dressing-room. She was 
struggling against these thoughts ; she was exerting all 
her strength of will to drive away these terrible mem- 
ories, when she thought she heard the key turn in the 
lock. She lifted her head from the pillow with a start. 

Then, by the uncertain light of her night-lamp, she 
thought she saw the door open slowly and noiselessly. 
Marie- Anne entered — gliding in like a phantom. She seat- 
ed herself in an arm-chair near the bed. Great tears were 
rolling down her cheeks, and she looked sadly, yet threat- 
eningly around her. The murderess hid her face under 
the bed-covers ; and her whole body was bathed in an 
icy perspiration. For her, this was not a mere appari- 
tion — it was a frightful reality. 

But hers was not a nature to submit unresistingly to 
such an impression. She shook off the stupor that was 
creeping over her, and tried to reason with herself aloud, 
as if the sound of her voice would reassure her. 

‘Tam dreaming!” she said. “Do the dead return to 
life? Am I childish enough to be frightened by phan- 
toms born of my own imagination?” 

She said this, but the phantom did not disappear. She 
shut her eyes, but still she saw it through her closea 
eyelids — through the coverings which she had drawn up 
over her head she saw it still. Not until daybreak did 
Mme. Blanche fall asleep. 

And it was the same the next night, and the night fol- 
lowing that, and always, and always ; and the terrors of 
each night were augmented by the terrors of the nights 
which had preceded it. During the day, in the bright 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


219 


suns hi ne, she regained her courage, and became skepti- 
cal again. Then she railed at herself. 

“To be afraid of something that does not exist is folly I” 
she said, vehemently. “To-night I will conquer my ab- 
surd weakness.” But when evening came all her brave 
resolutions vanished, and the same fear seized her when 
night appeared with its cortege of specters. 

It is true that Mine. Blanche attributed her tortures at 
night to the disquietude she suffered during the day. 
For the officials were at Sairmeuse then, and she trem- 
bled. A mere nothing might divert suspicion from 
Chupin and direct it toward her. What if some peas- 
ant liad seen her with Chupin? What if some trifling 
circumstance should furnish a clew which would lead 
straight to Courtornieu? “When the investigation is 
over, I shall forget,” she thought. 

It ended, but she did not forget. Darwin has said : “It 
is when their safety is assured that great criminals really 
feel remorse.” Mine. Blanche might have vouched for 
the truth of this assertion, made by the most profound 
thinker and closest observer of the age. And yet, the 
agony she was enduring did not make her abandon, for 
a single moment, the plan she had conceived on the day 
of Martial’s visit. She played her part so well that, 
deeply moved, almost repentant, he returned five or six 
times ; and at last, one day, he besought her to allow 
him to remain. 

But even the jo}’’ of this triumph did not restore her 
peace of mind. Between her and her husband rose that 
dread apparition; and Marie-Anne’s distorted features 
were ever before her. She knew only too well that this 
heart-broken man had no love to give her, and that she 
would never have the slightest influence over him. And 


220 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


to crown all, to her already intolerable sufferings was 
added another, more poignant than all the rest. 

Speaking, one evening, of Marie- Anne’s death. Martial 
forgot himself, and spoke of his oath of vengeance. He 
deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he remarked, 
for he should have experienced an intense delight in 
making the wretch who murdered her die a lingering 
death in the midst of the most frightful tortures. He 
spoke with extreme violence, and in a voice vibrant with 
his still powerful passion. And Blanche, in terror, asked 
herself what would be her fate if her husband ever dis- 
covered that she was the culprit— and he might discover 
it. 

She now began to regret that she had not kept the 
promise she had made to her victim ; and she resolved 
to commence the search for Marie- Anne’s child. To do 
this effectually it was necessary for her to be in a large 
city — Paris, for example — where she could procure dis- 
creet and skillful agents. It was necessary to persuade 
Martial to remove to the capital. Aided by the Duke 
de Sairmeuse, slie did not find this a very difficult task ; 
and, one morning, Mme. Blanche, with a radiant face, 
announced to Aunt Medea: 

^‘Aunt, we leave just one week from to-da^ 


CHAPTER LI. 

Beset by a thousand fears and anxieties, Blanche had 
failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same. 
The change, it is true, had been gradual; it had not 
struck the servants, but it was none the less positive 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


221 


and real, and it betrayed itself in numberless trifles. For 
example, though the poor dependent still retained J>er 
humble, resigned manner, she had lost, little by little, 
the servile fear that had showed itself in her every move- 
ment. She no longer trembled when any one addressed 
her, and there was occasionally a ring of independence 
in her voice. If visitors were present, she no longer kept 
nerself modestly in the background, but drew forward 
ner chair and took part in the conversation. At table, 
she allowed her preferences and her dislikes to appear. 
On two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from 
her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to 
question the propriety of some of her orders. Once Mme. 
Blanche, on going out, asked Aunt Medea to accompany 
her ; but the latter declared she had a cold and remained 
at heme. And, on the following Sunday, although 
Blanche divl not wish to attend vespers. Aunt Medea 
declared hei intention of going ; and as it rained, she 
requested the coachman to harness the horses to the 
carriage, which was done. 

All this was nothing, in appearance ; in reality, it was 
monstrous, amazing. It was quite plain that the humble 
relative was becoming bold, even audacious in her de- 
mands. As this dtparture, which her niece had just 
announced so gayly had never been discussed before 
her, she was greatly surprised. 

“What ! you are going away,” she repeated ; “you are 
leaving Courtornieu ?” 

“And without regret” 

“To go where, pray?” 

“To Paris. We shall reside there; that is decided. 
That is the place for my husband. His name, his fort- 
une, his talents, the favor of the king, assure him a high 


222 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


position there. He will repurchase the Hotel de Sair- 
ineuse, and furnish it magnificently. We shall have a 
princely establishment.” 

All the torments of envy were visible upon Aunt Me- 
dea’s countenance. 

“And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plain- 
tive tones. 

“You — aunt ! You will remain here ; you will be mis- 
tress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain 
to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and 
contented here, I hope.” 

But no ; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied. 

“I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this 
great chateau,” she whined. 

“You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, 
the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?” 

“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane 
people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this 
evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.” 

Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “What do you wish, 
then?” sne asked, in a still more sarcastic manner. 

“I thought — I wondered — if you could not take me 
with you. ’ ’ 

“To Paris ! You are crazy, I do believe. What woul 
you do there?” 

“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!” 

“Impossible, aunt, impossible!” 

Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair. 

“And what if I should tell you that I cannot remain 
here — that I dare not — that I should die !” 

A flush of impatience dyed the cheek of Mme. Blanche. 
“You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, rudely. 
And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


223 


words, she added: “If Courtornieu displeases you so 
much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking 
a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.’* 

Aunt Medea turned very pale, and she bit her lips until 
the blood came. “That is to say,” she said, at last, “you 
permit me to take my choice between dying of feat at 
Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital? Thanks ! 
my niece, thanks ! That is like you. I expected nothing 
less of you. Thanks !” She raised her head, and a dan- 
gerous light gleamed in her eyes. There was the hiss of 
a serpent in the voice in which she continued: “Very 
well, this decides me I I entreated you, and you brutally 
refused to heed my prayer ; now I command and I say : 

‘ I will go I ’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris — and 
I shall go. Ah ! it surprises you to hear poor, meek, 
much-abused Aunt Medea speak in this way. I have 
endured in silence for a long time, but I have rebelled 
at last. My life in tliis house has been a hell. It is true 
that you have given me shelter — that you have fed and 
lodged me ; but you have taken my entire life in ex- 
change. What servant ever endured what I have en- 
dured? Have you ever treated one of your maids as you 
have treated me — your own flesh and blood? And I 
have had no wages ; on the contrary, I was expected to 
be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah I you 
have made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. 
How you have insulted me — humiliated me — trampled 
me under foot !” She paused. The bitter rancor which 
had been accumulating for years fairly choked her ; but 
after a moment, she resumed, in a tone of intense irony : 

“You ask me what I would do in Paris? I, too, would 
enjoy myself. What will you do, yourself? You will go 
to court, to balls, and to the play— will you not? Very 


224 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


well, I will accompany you. I will attend these fetes. I 
will have handsome toilets. I— poor Aunt Medea— who 
have never seen myself in anything but shabby black 
woolen dresses. Have you ever thought of giving me 
the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Yes, twice 
a year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recom- 
mending me to take good care of it. But it was not for 
my sake that you went to this expense. It was for your 
own sake, and in order that your poor relation should do 
honor to your generosity. You dressed me in it as you 
sew gold lace upon the clothing of your lackeys, through 
vanity. And I endured all this ; I made myself insignifi- 
cant and humble ; buffeted upon one cheek, I offered the 
other. I must live — I must have food . And you, Blanche, 
how often, to make me subservient to your will, have 
you said to me: ‘You will do thus-and-so, if you desire 
to remain at Courtornieu?’ And I obeyed — I was forced 
to obey, since I knew not where to go. Ah ! you have 
abused me in every way ; but now my turn has come 

Blanche was so amazed that she could not articulate a 
syllable. At last, in a scarcely audible voice, she faltered : 

“I do not understand ■ you, aunt, I do not understand 
you!” 

The poor dependent shrugged her shoulders, as her 
niece had done a few moments before. 

‘‘In that case,” said she, slowly, “I may as well tell you 
that since you have, against my will, made me your ac- 
complice, we must share everything in common. I share 
the danger ; I will share the pleasure. What if all should 
be discovered? Do you ever think of that? Yes, and 
that is why you are seeking diversion. Very well! I 
also desire diversion. I shall go to Paris with you. ” 

By a terrible effort Blanche had succeeded in regaining 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


225 


her self-possession in some measure, at least. “And if I 
should say no?” she responded, coldly. 

“But you will not say no.” 

“And why, if you please?” 

“Because — ” 

“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?” 

Aunt Medea shook her head. 

“I am not so foolish,” she retorted. “I should only 
compromise myself. No, I shall not do that; but I 
might, perhaps, tell your husband what happened at the 
Borderie.” 

Blanche shuddered. No threat was capable of moving 
her like that. 

“You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she ; “I promise 
it!” Then she added, gently: “But it is unnecessary to 
threaten me. You have been cruel, aunt, and, at the 
same time, unjust. If you have been unhappy in our 
house, you alone are to blame. Why have you said 
nothing? I attributed your complaisance to your affec- 
tion for me. How was I to know that a woman as quiet 
and modest as yourself longed for fine apparel. Confess 
that it was impossible ! Had I known — But rest easy, 
aunt, I will atone for my neglect.” 

And as Aunt Medea, having obtained all she desired, 
stammered an excuse : 

“Nonsense!” Blanche exclaimed; “let us forget this 
foolish quarrel. You forgive me, do you not?” 

And the two ladies embraced each other with the 
greatest effusion, like two friends, united after a mis- 
understanding. But Aunt Medea was as far from being 
deceived by this mock reconciliation as the clear-sighted 
"Blanche. 

“It will be best for me to keep on the qui vive,” thought 


226 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


the humble relative. “God only knows with what in- 
tense joy my dear niece would send me to join Marie- 
Annel” 

Perhaps a similar thought flitted through the mind of 
Mme. Blanche. She felt as a convict might feel on see- 
ing his most execrated enemy, perhaps the man who had 
betrayed him, fastened to the other end of his chain. 

“I am bound now and forever to this dangerous and 
perfidious creature,” she thought. “I am no longer my 
own mistress ; I belong to her. When she commands, I 
must obey . I must be a slave of her every caprice — and 
she has forty years of humiliation and servitude to 
avenge.” 

The prospect of such a life made her tremble ; and she 
racked her brain to discover some way of freeing her- 
self from her detested companion. Would it be possible 
to inspire Aunt Medea with a desire to live independently 
in her own house, served by her own servants? Might 
she succeed in persuading this silly old woman, who still 
longed for finery and ball-dresses, to marry? A hand- 
some marriage portion will always attract a husband. 

But, in either case, Blanche would require money— a 
large sum of money, for whose use she would be ac- 
countable to no one. This conviction made her resolve 
to take possession of about two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand francs, in bank notes and coin, belonging to her 
father. This sum represented the savings of the Mar- 
quis de Courtomieu during the past three years. No one 
knew he had laid it aside except his daughter ; and now 
that he had lost his reason, Blanche, who knew where 
the hoard was concealed, could take it for her own use 
without the slightest danger. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


227 


“With this,” she thought, “I can at any moment en- 
rich Aunt Medea without having recourse to Martial.” 

After this little scene there was a constant interchange 
of delicate attentions and touching devotion between the 
two ladies. It was “my dearest little aunt,” and “my 
beloved niece,” from morning until night; and the gos- 
sips of the' neighborhood, who had often commented 
upon the haughty disdain which Mme. Blanche displayed 
in her treatment of her relative, would have found abun- 
dant food for comment had they known that Aunt Medea 
was protected from the possibility of cold by a mantle 
lined with costly fur, exactly like the marquise’s own, 
and that she made the journey, not in the large Berlin, 
with the servants, but in the post-chaise with the Mar- 
quis and Marquise de Sairmeuse. The change was so 
marked that even Martial remarked it, and as soon as 
he found himself alone with his wife, he exclaimed, in 
a tone of good-natured raillery : 

“What is the meaning of all this devotion? We shall 
finish by encasing this precious aunt in cotton, shall we 
not?” 

Blanche trembled and flushed a little. 

“I love good Aunt Medea so much!” said she. “I 
never can forget all the affection and devotion she 
lavished upon me when I was so unhappy.” 

It was such a plausible explanation that Martial took 
no further notice of the matter, for bis mind just then 
was fully occupied. The agent whom he had sent to 
Paris in advance, to purchase, if possible, the Hotel de 
Sairmeuse, had written to him to make all possible haste, 
as there was some difficulty about concluding the bargain. 

“Plague take the fellow!” said the marquis, angrily, 
on receiving this news. “He is quite stupid enough to 


228 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


let this opportunit}^, for which we have been waiting ten 
years, slip through his fingers. I shall find no pleasure 
in Paris if I cannot own our old residence.” 

He was so impatient to reach Paris that, on the second 
day of their journey, he declared if he were alone he 
would travel all night. 

“Do so now,” said Blanche, graciously; “I do not feel 
fatigued in the least, and a night of travel does not appall 
me.” 

They did travel all night, and the next day, about 
nine o’clock, they alighted at the Hotel Meurice. Mar- 
tial scarcely took time to eat his breakfast. 

“I must go and see my agent at once,” he said, as he 
hurried off. “I will soon be back.” 

He reappeared in about two hours, pleased and radiant. 
“My agent was a simpleton,” he exclaimed. “He was 
afraid to write me that a man, upon whom the conclusion 
of the sale depends, demands a bonus of fifty thousand 
francs. He shall have it and welcome!” Then, in the 
tone of gallantry which he always used in addressing 
his wife, he said: “It only remains for me to sign the 
papers ; but I will not do so unless the house suits you. 
If you are not too tired, I would like you to visit it at 
once. Time presses, and we have many competitors.” 

This visit was, of course, one of pure form ; but Mme. 
Blanche would have been hard to please if she had not 
been satisfied with this mansion, one of the most mag- 
nificent in Paris, with an entrance on the Rue de 
Grenelle, and large gardens shaded with superb trees, 
and extending to the Rue de Varennes. Unfortunately, 
this superb dwelling had not been occupied for several 
years, and required many repairs. 

“It will take at least six months to restore it,” said 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


229 


Martial; “perhaps more. It is true that they might in 
three months, perhaps, render a portion of it very com- 
fortable.” 

“It would be living in one’s own house, at least,” ap- 
proved Blanche, divining her husband’s wishes. 

“Ah I then you agree with me? In that case you may 
rest assured that I will expedite matters as much as pos- 
sible.” 

In spite, or rather by reason of his immense fortune, 
the Marquis de Sairmeuse knew that a person is never so 
well nor so quickly served as when he serves himself, 
so he resolved to take the matter into his own hands. 
He conferred with architects, interviewed contractors, 
and hurried on the workmen. As soon as he was up in 
the morning, he started out without waiting for break- 
fast, and seldom returned until dinner. 

Although Blanche was compelled to pass most of her 
time within doors, on account of the bad weather, she 
was not inclined to complain. Her journey, the unac- 
customed sights and sounds of Paris, the novelty of life 
in a hotel, all combined to distract her thoughts from 
herself. She forgot her fears, a sort of haze enveloped 
the terrible scenes at the Borderie ; the clamors of con- 
science sank into faint whispers. The past seemed fad- 
ing away, and she was beginning to entertain hopes of 
a new and better life, when one day a servant entered 
and said : “There is a man below who wishes to speak 
with madame.” 


CHAPTER LH. 

Half reclining upon a sofa, Mme. Blanche was listen- 
ing to a new book which Aunt Medea was reading aloud, 


230 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


and she did not even raise her head the servant deliv- 
ered his message. 

“A man?” she asked, carelessly; “what man?” 

She was expecting no one; it must be one of the 
laborers employed by Martial. 

“I cannot inform madame,” replied the servant. “He 
iS quite a young man ; is dressed like a peasant, and is 
perhaps seeking a place.” 

“It is probably the marquis whom he desires to see. ” 

“Madame will excuse me, but he said particularly that 
he desired to speak to her.” 

“Ask his name and his business, then. Go on, aunt,” 
she added; “we have been interrupted in the most in- 
teresting portion.” 

But Aunt Medea had not had time to finish the page, 
when the servant reappeared. 

“The man says madame will understand his business 
when she hears his name.” 

“And his name?” 

“Chupin.” 

It was as if a bomb-shell had exploded in the room. 
Aunt Medea, with a shriek, dropped her book and sank 
back, half fainting, in her chair. Blanche sprang up 
with a face as colorless as her white cashmere peignoir^ 
her eyes troubled, her lips trembling. 

“Chupin!” she repeated, as if she hoped the servant 
would tell her she had not understood him correctly ; 
“Chupin!” Then, angrily: “Tell this man that I will 
not see him. I will not see him ! do you hear?” 

But before the servant had time to bow respectfully 
and retire, the young marquise changed her mind. 

“One moment,” said she; “on reflection, I think I will 
see him. Bring him up.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


231 


The servant withdrew and the two ladies looked at 
eacli other in silent consternation. 

“It must be one of Chupin’s sons,” faltered Blanche, 
at last. 

“Undoubtedly ; but what does he desire?” 

“Money, probably.” 

Aunt Medea lifted her eyes to Heaven. 

“God grant that he knows nothing of your meetings 
with his father! Blessed Jesus! what if he should 
know?” 

“You are not going to despair in advance ! We shall 
know all in a few moments. Pray be calm. Turn your 
back to us ; look out into the street ; do not let him see 
your face. But why is he so long in coming?” 

Blanche was not deceived. It was Chupin's eldest 
son ; the one to whom the dying poacher had confided 
his secret. Since his arrival in Paris he had been run- 
ning the streets from morning until evening, inquiring 
everywhere and of everybody the address of the Mar- 
quise de Sairmeuse. At last he discovered it; and he 
lost no time in presenting himself at the Hotel Meurice. 
He was now awaiting the result of his application at the 
entrance of the hotel, where he stood whistling, with 
his hands in his pockets, when the servant returned, 
saying : “She consents to see you ; follow me.” 

Chupin obeyed ; but the servant, greatly astonished, 
and on fire with curiosity, loitered by the way in the 
hope of obtaining some explanation from this country 
youth. 

“I do not say it to flatter you, my loy,” he remarked, 
“but your name produced a great effect upon madame.” 

The prudent peasant carefully concealed the joy he 
felt on receiving this information. 


232 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“How does it happen that she knows you?” pursued 
the servant. “Are you both from the same place?” 

“I am her foster-brother.” 

The servant did not believe a word of this response ; 
but they had reached the apartment of the marquise, he 
opened the door and ushered Chupin into the room. 

The peasant had prepared a little story in advance, 
but he was so dazzled by the magnificence around him 
that he stood motionless with staring eyes and gaping 
mouth. His wonder was increased by a large mirror 
opposite the door, in which he could survey himself from 
head to foot, and by the beautiful flowers on the carpet, 
which he feared to crush beneath his heavy shoes. 

After a moment, Mine. Blanche decided to break the 
silence. 

“What do you wish?” she demanded. 

With many circumlocutions, Chupin explained that 
he had been obliged to leave Sairmeuse on account of 
the numerous enemies he had there, that he had been 
unable to find his father’s hidden treasure, and that he 
was, consequently, without resources. 

“Enough I” interrupted Mme. Blanche. Then, in a 
manner not in the least friendly, she continued: “I do 
not understand why you should apply to me. You and 
all the rest of your family have anything but an enviable 
reputation in Sairmeuse ; still, as you are from that part 
of the country, I am willing to aid you a little on condi- 
tion that you do not apply to me again.” 

Chupin listened to this homily with a half cringing, 
half impudent air; when it was finished he lifted his 
head, and said, proudly : “I do not ask for alms.” 

“What do you ask, then?” 

“My dues.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


233 


The heart of Mme. Blanche sank, and yet she had 
courage to cast a glance of disdain upon the speaker, 
and said : “Ah ! do I owe you anything?” 

“You owe me nothing personally, madame; but you 
owe a heavy debt to my deceased father. In whose ser- 
vice did he perish? Poor old man I he loved you devot- 
edly. His last words were of you. ‘A terrible thing has 
just happened at the Borderie, my boy,’ said he. ‘The 
young marquise hated Marie- Anne, and she has poisoned 
her. Had it not been for me she would have been lost. 
I am about to die ; let the whole blame rest upon me ; it 
will not hurt me, and it will save the young lady. And 
afterward she will reward you ; and as long as you keep 
the secret you will want for nothing.’ ” 

Great as was his impudence, he paused, amazed by 
the perfectly composed face of his listener. In the 
presence of such wonderful dissimulation he almost 
doubted the truth of his father’s story. The courage 
and heroism displayed by the marquise were really won- 
derful. She felt if she yielded once, she would forever 
be at the mercy of this wretch, as she was already at the 
mercy of Aimt Medea. 

“In other words,” said she, calmly, “you accuse me 
of the murder of Mademoiselle Lacheneur; and you 
threaten to denounce me if I do not yield to your de- 
mands.” 

Chupin nodded his head in acquiescence. 

“Very well!” said the marquise; “since this is the 
case — go !” 

It seemed, indeed, as if she would, by her audacity, 
win this dangerous game upon which her future peace 
depended. Chupin, greatly abashed, was standing there 


234 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


undecided what course to pursue when Aunt Medea, who 
was listening by the window, turned in affright. 

“Blanche! your husband — Martial! He is coming!” 

The game was lost. Blanche saw her husband enter- 
ing, finding Chupin, conversing with him, and discover- 
ing all! Her brain whirled; she yielded. She hastily 
thrust her purse in Chupin’s hand and dragged him 
through an inner door and to the servants’ staircase. 

“Take this!” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I will 
see you again. And not a word — not a word to my hus- 
band, remember!” 

She had been wise to lose no liiiiu. When she re-en- 
tered the salon she found Martial there. His head was 
bowed upon his breast; he held an open letter in his 
hand. He looked up when his wife entered the room, 
and she saw a tear in his eye. 

“What has happened?” she faltered. 

Martial did not remark her emotion. 

“My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied. 

“The Duke de Sairmeuse! My God! how did it 
happen?” 

“He was thrown from his horse, in the forest near the 
Sanguille rocks.” 

“Ah ! it was there where my poor father was nearly 
murdered!” 

“Yes, it is the very place.” 

There was a moment’s silence. Martial’s affection for 
his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware 
that his father had but little love for him. He was as- 
tonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his 
death. 

“From this letter, which was forwarded by a messen- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


235 


ger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I judge that every- 
body believes it to have been an accident; but I — I — ” 

“Well?” 

“I believe he was murdered.” 

An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and 
Blanche turned pale. 

“Murdered!” she whispered. 

“Yes, Blanche ; and I could name the murderer. Oh ! 
I am not deceived. The murderer of my father is the 
same man who attempted to assassinate the Marquis de 
Courtornieu — ’ ’ 

“Jean Lacheneur!” 

Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply. 

“And you will not denounce him? You will not de- 
mand justice?” 

Martial’s face grew more and more gloomy. 

“What good would it do?” he replied. “I have no 
material proofs to give, and justice demands incontest- 
able evidence.” 

Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather 
than addressing his wife, he said, despondently : 

“The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtor- 
nieu have reaped what they have sown. The blood of 
murdered innocence always calls for vengeance. Sooner 
or later, the guilty must expiate their crimes !” 

Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her 
own soul. Had he intended his words for her, he would 
not have expressed himself differently. 

“Martial!” said she, trying to arouse him from his 
gloomy reverie, “Martial!” 

He did not seem to hear her, and, in the same tone, 
he continued : 

“These Lacheneurs were happy and honored before 


236 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


our arrival at Sairmeuse. Their conduct was above alJ. 
praise; their probity amounted to heroism. We miglici 
have made them our faithful and devoted friends, lb 
was our duty, as well as in our interest, to have done so, 
did not understand this ; we humiliated, ruined, ex- 
asperated them. It was a fault for which we must 
atone. Who knows but in Jean Lacheneur’s place 1 
siiould have done what he has done?” 

He was silent for a moment ; then, with one of those 
sudden inspirations that sometimes enable one almost to 
read the future, he resumed : 

‘T know Jean Lacheneur. I, alone, can fathom his 
hatred, and I know that he lives only in the hope of 
vengeance. It is true that we are very high and he is 
very low but that matters little. We have everything 
to fear. Our millions form a rampart around us, but he 
will know how to open a breach. And no precautions 
will save us. At the very moment when we feel our- 
selves secure, he will be ready to strike. What he will 
attempt, I know not ; but his will be a terrible revenge. 
Remember my words, Blanche, if ruin ever threatens 
our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work !” 

Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to 
articulate a word, and for five minutes no sound broke 
the stillness save Martial’s monotonous tread, as he paced 
up and down the room. At last he paused before his 
wife. 

“I have just ordered post-horses. You will excuse me 
for leaving you here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at 
once. I shall not be absent more than a week.” 

He departed from Paris a few hours later, and Blanche 
was left a prey to the most intolerable anxiety. She 
suffered more now than during the days that imme- 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


237 


diately followed her crime. It was not against phan- 
toms she was obliged to protect herself now: Chupin 
existed, and his voice, even if it were not as terrible as 
the voice of conscience, might make itself heard at any 
moment. If she had known where to find him, she 
would have gone to him, and endeavored, by the pay- 
ment of a large sum of money, to persuade him to leave 
France. But Chupin had left the hotel without giving 
her his address. The gloomy apprehensions expressed 
by Martial increased the fears of the young marquise. 
The mere sound of the name of Lacheneur made her 
shrink with terror. She could not rid herself of the idea 
that Jean suspected her guilt, and that he was watching 
her. Her wish to find Marie- Anne^s infant was stronger 
than ever. It seemed to her that the child might be a 
protection to her some day. But where could she find 
an agent in whom she could confide? 

At last, she remembered that she had heard her father 
speak of a detective by the name of Chefteux, an exceed- 
ingly shrewd fellow, capable of anything, even honesty, 
if he were well paid. The man was really a miserable 
wretch, one of Fouche’s vilest instruments, who had 
served and betrayed all parties, and who, at last, had 
I>een convicted of perjury, but had somehow managed 
to escape punishment. After his dismissal from the 
]>olice force, Chefteux had founded a bureau of private 
information. 

After several inquiries. Mine. Blanche discovered that 
he lived in the Place Dauphine, and she determined to 
take advantage of her husband’s absence to pay the de- 
tective a visit. One morning she donned her simplest 
dress, and, accompanied by Aunt Medea, repaired to the 
iiouse of Chefteux. 


238 


Mv^NSIEUB LECOQ. 


He was then about thirty-four years of age, a man of 
medium height, of inoffensive mien, and who affected 
an unvarying good humor. He invited his clients into 
a nicely furnished drawing-room, and Mme. Blanche at 
oi^ce began telling him that she was married, and living 
in the Rue Saint-Denis ; that one of her sisters, who had 
lately died, had been guilty of an indiscretion, and that 
she was ready to make any sacrifice to find this sister’s 
child, etc., etc. A long story, which she had prepared 
m advance, and which sounded very plausible. Chefteux 
did not believe a word of it, however ; for, as soon as it 
was ended, he tapped her familiarly on the shoulder, 
and said; “In short, my dear, we have had our little 
escapades before our marriage.” 

She shrank back, as if from some venomous reptile. 
To be treated thus I she — a Courtornieu — Duchesse de 
Sairmeuse ! 

“I think you are laboring under a wrong impression,” 
she said, haughtily. 

He made haste to apologize; but while listening to 
further details given him by the young lady, he thought : 
“What an eye ! what a voice !— they are not suited to a 
denizen of the Saint-Denis !” 

His suspicions were confirmed by the reward of twenty 
thousand francs, which Mine. Blanche imprudently 
promised him in case of success, and by the five hun- 
dred francs which she paid in advance. 

“And where shall I have the honor of addressing my 
communications to you, madame?” he inquired. 

“Nowhere,” replied the young lady. “I shall be pass- 
ing here from time to time, and I will call.” 

When they left the house, Chefteux followed them. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


239 


“For once,” he thought, “I believe that fortune smiles 
upon me.” 

To discover the name and rank of his new clients was 
but child’s play to Fouche’s former pupil. His task was 
all the easier since they had no suspicion whatever of his 
designs. Mme. Blanche, who had heard his powers of 
discernment so highly praised, was confident of success. 
All the way back to the hotel she was congratulating 
herself upon the step she had taken. 

“In less than a month,” she said to Aunt Medea, “we 
shall have the child; and it will be a protection to us.” 

But the following week she realized the extent of her 
imprudence. On visiting Chefteux again, she was re- 
ceived with such marks of respect that she saw at once 
she was known. She made an attempt to deceive him, 
but the detective checked her. 

“First of all,” he said, with a good-humored smile, “I 
ascertain the identity of the persons who honor me with 
their confidence. It is a proof of my ability, which I 
give, gratis. But madame need have no fears; I am 
discreet by nature and by profession. Many ladies of 
the highest ranks are in the position of Madame la 
Duchesse !” 

So Chefteux still believed that the Duchesse de Sair- 
rneuse was searching for her own child. She did not 
try to convince him to the contrary. It was better that 
he should believe this than suspect the truth. 

The condition of Mme. Blanche was now truly pitiable. 
She found herself entangled in a net, and each move- 
ment, far from freeing her, tightened the meshes around 
lier. Three persons knew the secret that threatened her 
life and honor. Under these circumstances, how could 
she hope to keep that secret inviolate? She was, more- 


240 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


over, at the mercy of three unscrupulous masters ; and, 
before a word, or a gesture, or a look from them, her 
haughty spirit was compelled to bow in meek subservi- 
ence. 

And her time was no longer at her own disposal. Mar- 
tial had returned ; and they had taken up their abode at 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse. The young duchess was now 
compelled to live under the scrutiny of fifty servants— 
of forty enemies, more or less, interested in watching 
her, in criticising her every ‘act, and in discovering her 
inmost thoughts. 

Aunt Medea, it is true, was of great assistance to her. 
Blanche purchased a dress for her, whenever she pur- 
chased one for herself, took her about with her on 
all occasions, and the humble relative expressed her 
satisfaction in the most enthusiastic terms, and declared 
her willingness to do anything for her benefactress. 

Nor did Chefteux give Mme. Blanche much more an- 
noyance. Every three months he presented a memo- 
randum of the expenses of mvestigations, which usually 
amounted to about ten thousand francs ; and, so long as 
she paid him it was plain that he would be silent. He 
had given her to understand, however, that he should 
expect an annuity of twenty-four thousand francs ; and 
once, when Mme. Blanclie remarked that he must aban- 
don the search, if nothing had been discovered at the 
end of two years : 

“Never!” he replied; “I shall continue the search as 
long as I live !” 

But Chupin, unfortunately, remained; and he was a 
constant terror. She had been compelled to give him 
twenty thousand francs, to begin with. He declared 
that his younger brother had come to Paris in pursuit 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


241 


of him, accusing him of having stolen their father’s 
hoard, and demanding his share with his dagger in his 
hand. There had been a battle, and it was with a head 
bound up in blood-stained linen that Chupin made his 
appearance before Mme. Blanche. 

“Give me the sum that the old man buried, and I will 
allow my brother to think that I had stolen it. It is not 
very pleasant to be regarded as a thief, when one is an 
honest man, but I will bear it for your sake. If you re- 
fuse, I shall be compelled to tell him where I have 
obtained my money, and how.” 

If he possessed all the vices, depravity and cold-blooded 
perversity of his father, this wretch had inherited neither 
his intelligence nor his finesse. Instead of taking the 
precautions which his interest required, he seemed to 
find a brutal pleasure in compromising the duchess. He 
was a constant visitor at the Hotel de Sairmeuse. He 
came and went at all hours, morning, noon and night, 
without troubling himself in the least about Martial. 
And the servants were amazed to see their haughty 
mistress unhesitatingly leave everything at the call of 
this suspicious-looking character, who smelled so strongly 
of tobacco and vile brandy. 

One evening, while a grand entertainment was in prog- 
ress at the Hotel de Sairmeuse, he made his appearance, 
half drunk, and imperiously ordered the servants to go 
and tell Mme. Blanche that he was there, and that he 
was waiting for her. She hastened to him in her mag- 
nificent evening-dress, her face white with rage and 
shame beneath her tiara of diamonds. And when, in 
her exasperation, she refused to give the wretch what he 
demanded : 

“That is to say, I am to starve while you are reveling 


242 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


here!” he exclaimed. “I am not such a fool. Give me 
money, and instantly, or I “will tell all I know, here and 
now !” 

What could she do? She was obliged to yield, as she 
had always done before. And yet he grew more and 
more insatiable every day. Money remained in his 
pockets no longer than water remains in a sieve. But 
he did not think of elevating his vices to the proportions 
of the fortune which he squandered. He did not even 
provide himself with decent clothing ; from his appear- 
ance one would have supposed him a beggar, and his 
companions were the vilest and most degraded of beings. 

One night he was arrested in a low den, and the police, 
surprised at seeing so much gold in the possession of such 
a beggarly-looking wretch, accused him of being a thief. 
He mentioned the name of the Duchesse de Sairmeuse. 

An inspector of the police presented himself at the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse the following morning. Martial, 
fortunately, was in Vienna at the time. And Mme. 
Blanche was forced to undergo the terrible humiliation 
of confessing that she had given a large sum of money 
to this man, whose family she had known, and who, she 
added, had once rendered her an important service. 

Sometimes her tormentor changed his tactics. Fox 
example, he declared that he disliked to come to the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse, that the servants treated him as i*. 
he were a mendicant, that after this he would write. 
And, in a day or two there would come a letter bidding 
her bring such a sum, to such a place, at such an hour. 
And the proud duchess waa always punctual at the 
rendezvous. 

There was constantly some new invention, as if he 
found an intense delight in proving his power and in 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


243 


abusing it. He had met, Heaven knows where ! a cer- 
tain Aspasie Clapard, to whom he took a violent fancy, 
and although she was much older than himself, he wished 
to marry her. Mme. Blanche paid for the wedding- 
feast. Again, he announced his desire of establishing 
liimself in business, having resolved, he said, to live by 
his own exertions. He purchased the stock of a wine 
merchant, which the duchess paid for and which he 
drank in no time. His wife gave birth to a child, and 
Mme. de Sairmeuse must pay for the baptism, as she had 
paid for the wedding, only too happy that Chupin did 
not require her to stand as godmother to little Polyte. 
He had entertained this idea at first. 

On two occasions Mme. Blanche accompanied her hus- 
band to Vienna and to London, whither he went charged 
with important diplomatic missions. She remained three 
years in foreign lands. Each week during all that time 
she received one letter, at leasf, from Chupin. 

Ah ! many a time she envied the lot of her victim I 
What was Marie- Anne’s death compared with the life 
she led ! Her sufferings were measured by years, Marie- 
Anne’s by m'li :tes ; and she said to herself, again and 
again, that the torture of poison could not be as intolev 
able as her agony. 


CHAPTER LHI. 

How was it that Martial had failed to discover, or to 
suspect this state of affairs? A moment’s reflection will 
explain this fact, which is so extraordinary in appear- 
ance, so natural in reality. 


244 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


The head of a family, whether he dwells in an attic or 
in a palace, is always the last to know what is going on 
in his home. What everybody else knows, he does not 
even suspect. The master often sleeps while his house 
is on fire. Some terrible catastrophe— an explosion— is 
nec^sary to arouse him from his fancied security. 

The life that Martial led was likely to prevent him 
from arriving at the truth. He was a stranger to his 
wife. His manner toward her was perfect, full of defer- 
ence and chivalrous courtesy ; but they had nothing in 
common except a name and certain interests. Each 
lived his own life. They met only at dinner, or at the 
entertainments which they gave, and which were con- 
sidered the most brilliant in Paris society. The duchess 
had her own apartments, her servants, her carriages, her 
horses, her own table. 

At twenty-five, Martial, the last descendant of the great 
house of Sairmeuse — a man upon whom destiny had ap- 
parently lavished every blessing — the possessor of youth, 
unbounded wealth, and a brilliant intellect, succumbed 
beneath the burden of an incurable despondency and 
ennui. 

The death of Marie- Anne had destroyed all his hopes 
of happiness ; and realizing the emptiness of his life, he 
did his best to fill the void with bustle and excitement. 
He threw himself headlong into politics, striving to find 
in power and in satisfied ambition some relief from his 
despondency. 

It is only just to say that Mme. Blanche had remained 
superior to circumstances, and that she had played the 
role of a happy, contented woman with consummate 
skill. Her frightful sufferings and anxiety never marred 
the haughty serenity of her face. She soon won a place 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


245 


as one of the queens of society, am plunged into dissipa- 
tion with a sort of frenzy. Was she endeavoring to 
divert her mind? Did she hope to overpower thought 
by excessive fatigue? To Aunt Medea alone did Blanche 
reveal her secret heart. 

“I am like a culprit who has been bound to the scaffold, 
and then abandoned by the executioner, who says, as he 
departs : ‘Live until the ax falls of its own accord.’ ” 

And the ax might fall at any moment. A word, a 
trifle, an unlucky chance — she dared not say “a decree 
of Providence” — and Martial would know all. 

Such, in all its unspeakable horror, was the position of 
the beautiful and envied Duchesse de Sairmeuse. “She 
must be perfectly happy,” said the world; but she felt; 
herself sliding down the precipice to the awful depths 
below. Like a shipwrecked mariner clinging to a float- 
ing spar, she scanned the horizon with a despairing eye, 
and saw only angry and threatening clouds. 

Time, perhaps, might bring her some relief. Once it 
happened that six week: went by and she heard nothing 
from Chupin. A month and a half ! What had become 
of him? To Mme. Blanche this silence was as ominous 
as the calm that precedes the storm. 

A line in a newspaper solved the mystery. Chupin 
was in prison. The wretch, after drinking more heavily 
than usual one evening, had quarreled with his brother, 
and had killed him by a blow upon the head with a piece 
of iron. 

The blood of the betrayed Lacheneur was visited upon 
the heads of his murderer’s children. Tried by the Court 
of Assizes, Chupin was condemned to twenty years of 
hard labor, and sent to Brest. 

But this sentence afforded the duchess no relief. The 


246 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


culprit had written to her from his Paris prison; he 
wrote to her from Brest. But he did not send his letters 
through the post. He confided them tc comrades whose 
terms of imprisonment had expired, and who came to 
the Hotel de Sairmeuse demanding an interview with the 
duchess. 

And she received them. Tliey told all the miseries 
they had endured “out there;*’ and, usually, ended by 
requesting some slight assistance. One morning a man, 
whose desperate appearance and manner frightened her, 
brought the duchess this laconic epistle : 

“I am tired of starving here ; I wish to make my escape. 
Come to Brest; you can visit the prison, and we will de- 
cide upon some plan. If you refuse to do this, I shall 
apply to the duke, who will obtain my pardon in ex- 
change for what I will tell him.” 

Mme. Blanche was dumb with horror. It was impos- 
sible, she thought, to sink lower than this. 

“Well!” demanded the man, harshly. “What reply 
shall I make to my comrade?” 

“I will go— tell him that I will go!” she said, driven 
to desperation. 

She made the journey, visited the prison, but did not 
find Chupin. The previous week there had been a revolt 
in the prison, the troops had fired upon the prisoners, 
and Chupin had been killed instantly. 

Still, the duchess dared not rejoice. She feared that 
her tormentor had told his wife the secret of his power. 
“I shall soon know,” she thought. 

Tlie widow promptly made her appearance ; but her 
manner was humble and supplicating. She had often 
heard her dear, dead husband say that madame was his 
benefactress, and now she came to beg a little aid to 


MONSIFCJR LECOQ. 


247 


enable her to open a small drinking saloon. Her son 
Polyte — ah I such a good son! iust eighteen years old, 
and such a help to his poor mother— had discovered a 
little house in a good situation for the business, and if 
^ey only had three or four hundred francs — 

ihme. Blanche gave her five hundred francs. “Either 
Her humility is a. mask/' she thought, “or her husband 
has told her nothing. 

Five days later holyte Cnupm ^resented himself. They 
needed three hundred francs more before they could com- 
mence business, and he came on behalf of his mother to 
entreat the kind lady to advance them. 

Determined to discover where she stood, the duchess 
shortly refused, and the young man departed without a 
word. Evidently the mother and son were ignorant of 
the facts. Chupin’s secret had died with nim. 

This happened early in January. Toward the last of 
February, Aunt Medea contracted inflammation of the 
lungs on leaving a fancy ball, which she attended in an 
absurd costume, in spite of all the attempts which her 
niece made to dissuade her. Her passion for dress killea 
her. Her illness lasted only three days ; but her suffer' 
ings, physical and mental, were terrible. Constrained 
by her fear of death to examine her own conscience, sne 
saw plainly that by profiting by the crime of her niece 
she had been as culpable as if she had aided her in com- 
mitting it. She had been very devout in former years, 
and now her superstitious fears were re-awakened and 
intensified. Her faith returned accompanied by a cortege 
of terroi*s. 

“I am lost!” she cried; “I am lost!” 

She tossed to and fro upon her bed ; she writhed and 
shrieked as if she already saw hell opening to ingulf 


248 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


her. She called upon the Holy Virgin and upon all the 
saintc to protect her. She entreated God to grant her 
time for repentance and for expiation. She begged to 
see a priest, swearing she would make a full confession. 

Paler than the dying woman, but implacable, Blanche 
“vatched over her, aided by that one of her personal at- 
tendants in whom she had most confidence. 

“If this lasts long, I shall be ruined,” she thought. 
“I shall be obliged to call for assistance, and she will 
betray me !” 

It did not last long. The patient’s delirium was suc- 
ceeded by such prostration that it seemed each moment 
would be her last. But toward midnight she appeared 
to revive a little, and in a voice of intense feeling, she 
said : 

“You have no pity, Blanche. You have deprived me 
of all hope in the life to come. God will punish you. 
You, too, shall die like a dog; alone, without a word of 
Christian counsel or encouragement. I curse you I ’ ’ And 
she died, just as the clock was striking two. 

The time when Blanche would have given almost any- 
thing to know that Aunt Medea was beneath the sod, 
had long since passed. Now, the death of the poor old 
woman affected her deeply, and she had gained noth 
ing, since one of her maids was now acquainted with the 
secret of the crime at the Borderie. 

Every one who was intimately acquainted with the 
Duchesse de Sairmeuse noticed her dejection, and was 
astonished by it. “Is it not strange,’.’ remarked her 
friends, “that the duchess — such a very superior woman 
— should grieve so much for that absurd relative of hers?” 

But the dejection of Mme. Blanche was due, in great 
measure, to the sinister prophecies of the accomplice to 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


249 


whom she had denied the last consolations of religion. 
And as her mind reviewed the past she shuddered, as 
the peasants at Sairmeuse had done, when she thought 
of the fatality which had pursued the shedders of inno- 
cent blood. What misfortune had attended them all — 
from the sons of Chupin, the miserable traitor, up to 
her father, the Marquis de Courtornieu, whose mind had 
not been illumined by the least gleam of reason for ten 
long years before his death. 

“My turn will come !’’ she thought. 

The Baron and Baroness d’Escorval, and old Corporal 
Bavois, had departed this life within a month of each 
other, the previous year, mourned by all. 

So that of all the people of diverse condition who had 
been connected with the troubles at Montaignac, Blanche 
knew only four who were still alive. Maurice d’Escor- 
val, who had entered the magistracy, and was now a 
judge in the tribunal of the Seine ; Abbe Midon, who had 
come to Paris with Maurice, and Martial and herself. 

There was another person, the bare recollection of 
whom made her tremble, and whose name she dared 
not utter. Jean Lacheneur, Marie- Anne’s brother ! An 
inward voice, more powerful than reason, told her that 
this implacable enemy was still alive, watching for his 
hour of vengeance. 

More troubled by her presentiments now than she had 
been by Chupin ’s persecutions in days gone by, Mme. de 
Sairmeuse decided to apply to Chefteux, in order to as- 
certain, if possible, what she had to expect. 

Fouche’s former agent had not wavered in his devo- 
tion to the duchess. Every three months he presented 
his bill, which was paid without discussion; and, to ease 
his conscience, he sent one of his men to prowl around 


250 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Sairmeuse for a while, at least once a year. Animated 
by the hope of a magnificent reward, the spy promised 
his client, and — what was more to the purpose — prom- 
ised himself, that he would discover this dreaded enemy. 

He started in quest of him, and had already begun to 
collect proofs of Jean’s existence, when his investiga- 
tions were abruptly terminated. One morning the body 
of a man literally hacked to pieces was found in an old 
well. It was the body of Chefteux. 

“A fitting close to the career of such a wretch,” said 
the Journal des Debats, in noting the event. 

When she read this news, Mme. Blanche felt as a cul- 
prit would feel on reading his death-warrant. 

“The end is near!” she murmured. “Lacheneur is 
coming 1” 

The duchess was not mistaken. Jean had told the 
truth when he declared that he was not disposing of his 
sister’s estate for his own benefit. In his opinion Marie- 
^Vnne’s fortune .must be consecrated to one sacred pur- 
pose ; he would not divert the slightest portion of it to 
his individual needs. 

He was absolutely penniless, when the manager of a 
traveling theatrical company engaged him for a con- 
sideration of forty-five francs per month. From that 
day he lived the precarious life of a strolling player. 
He was poorly paid, and often reduced to abject poverty 
by lack of engagements, or by the impecuniosity of man- 
a,gers. 

His hatred had lost none of its virulence ; but to w'reak 
the desired vengeance upon his enemy, he must have 
time and money at his disposal. But how could he aC' 
cumulate money when he was often too poor to appease 
his hunger. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


251 


Still, he did not renounce his hopes. His was a rancor 
which was only intensified by years. He was biding his 
time while lie watched from the depths of his misery the 
brilliant fortunes of the house of Sairmeuse. 

He had waited sixteen years, when one of his friends 
procured him an engagement in Russia. The engage- 
ment was nothing; but the poor comedian was after- 
ward fortunate enough to obtain an interest in a theatri- 
cal enterprise, from which he realized a fortune of one 
hundred thousand francs in less than six years. 

“Now,” said he, “I can give up this life. lam rich 
enough, now, to begin the warfare !” And six weeks 
later he arrived in his native village. 

Before carrying any of his atrocious designs into exe- 
cution, he went to Sairmeuse to visit Marie- Anne’s grave, 
in order to obtain there an increase of animosity, as well 
as the relentless sang-froid of a stern avenger of crime. 

That was his only motive in going, but, on the very 
evening of his arrival, he learned through a garrulous 
old peasant woman that ever since his departure — that is 
to say, for a period of twenty years— two parties had 
been making persistent inquiries for a child which had 
been placed somewhere in the neighborhood. Jean knew 
that it was Marie- Anne’s child they were seeking. Why 
they had not succeeded in finding it, he knew equally 
well. But why were there two persons seeking the 
child? One was Maurice d’Escorval, of course; but 
who was the other? 

Instead of remaining at Sairmeuse a week, Jean Lache- 
neur tarried there a month, and by the expiration of 
that month he had traced these inquiries concerning the 
child to the agent of Chefteux. Through him, he reached 
Fouche’s former spy ; and, finally, succeeded in discover- 


252 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ing that the search had been instituted by no less a per- 
son than the Duchesse de Sairmeuse. 

This discovery bewildered him. How could Mme. 
Blanche have known that Marie- Anne had given birth 
to a child ; and knowing it, what possible interest could 
she have had in finding it? These two questions tor- 
mented Jean’s mind continually; but he could discover 
no satisfactory answer. 

“Chupin’s son could tell me, perhaps,” he thought. ‘‘I 
must pretend to be reconciled to the sons of the wretch 
who betrayed my father.” 

But the traitor’s children had been dead for several 
years, and after a long search, Jean found only the 
Widow Chupin, and her son, Polyte. They were keep- 
ing a drinking-saloon not far from the Chateau des Ren- 
tiers ; and their-establishment, known as the Poivriere, 
bore anything but an enviable reputation. 

Lacheneur questioned the widow and her son in vain ; 
they could give him no information whatever on the sub- 
ject. He told them his name, but even this did not 
awaken the slightest recollection in their minds. 

Jean was about to take his departure, when Mother 
Chupin, probably in the hope of extracting a few pen- 
nies, began to deplore her present misery, which was, 
she declared, all the harder to bear since she had wanted 
for nothing during the life of her poor husband, who had 
always obtained as much money as he wanted from a 
lady of high degree— the Duchesse de Sairmeuse, in short. 

Lacheneur uttered such a terrible oath that the old 
svoman and her son started back in affright. He saw at 
once the close connection between the researches of Mme. 
Blanche and her generosity to Chupin. 

“It was she who poisoned Marie- Anne I” he said to 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


253 


himself. “It was through my sister that she became 
aware of the existence of the child. She loaded Chupin 
with favors because he knew the 'crime she had com- 
mitted— that crime in which his father had* only been an 
accomplice !“ 

He remembered Martial’s oath at the bedside of the 
murdered girl, and his heart overflowed with savage ex- 
ultation. He saw his two enemies, the last of the Sair- 
meuse and the last of the Courtornieu, take in their own 
hands his work of vengeance. 

But this was mere conjecture ; he desired to be assured 
of the correctness of his suppositions. He drew from 
his pocket a handful of gold, and, throwing it upon the 
table, he said : 

“I am very rich; if you will obey me and keep my 
secret, your fortune is made.’’ 

shrill cry of delight from mother and son outweighed 
any protestations of obedience. 

The Widow Chupin knew how to write, and Lache- 
neur dictated this letter : 

“Madame la Duchesse— I shall expect you at my 
establishment to-morrow, between twelve and four 
o’clock. It is on business connected with the Borderie. 
If at five o’clock I have not seen you, I shall carry to 
the post a letter for the duke.’’ 

“And if she comes, what am I to say to her?’’ asked 
the astonished widow. 

“Nothing; you will merely ask her for money.’’ 

“If she comes, it is as I have guessed,’’ he reflected. 

She came. Hidden in the loft of the Poivriere, Jean, 
through an opening in the floor, saw the duchess give 
a bank-note to Mother Chupin. 


254 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Now, she is in my power!” he thought, exultantly. 
“Through what sloughs of degradation will I drag her 
before I deliver her up to her husband’s vengeance !” 


CHAPTER LIV. 

A FEW lines of the article consecrated to Martial de 
Sairmeuse in the “General Biography of the Men of the 
Century,” give the history of his life after his marriage. 

“Martial de Sairmeuse,” it says there, “brought to the 
service of his party a brilliant intellect and admirable 
endowments. Called to the front at the moment when 
political strife was raging with the utmost violence, he 
had courage to assume the sole responsibility of the most 
extreme measures. Compelled by almost universal op- 
probrium to retire from office, he left behind him ani- 
mosities which will be extinguished only with life.” 

But what this article does not state is this : if Martial 
was wrong — and that depends entirely upon the point of 
view from which his conduct is regarded — he was doubly 
wrong, since he was not possessed of those ardent con- 
victions, verging upon fanaticism, which make men 
fools, heroes and martyrs. 

He was not even ambitious. Those associated with 
him, witnessing his passionate struggle and his unceas- 
ing activity, thought him actuated by an insatiable 
thirst for power. He cared little or nothing for it. He 
considered its burdens heavy, its compensations small. 
His pride was too lofty to feel any satisfaction in the 
applause that delights the vain, and flattery disgusted 
him. Often, in his princely drawing-rooms, during some 
brilliant fete, his acquaintances noticed a shade of gloom 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


255 


steal over his features, and seeing him thus thoughtful 
and preoccupied, they respectfully refrained from dis- 
turbing him. 

“His mind is occupied with momentous questions,” 
they thought. “Who can tell what important decisions 
may result from this reverie?” 

They were mistaken. At the very moment when his 
brilliant success made his rivals pale with envy — when 
it would seem that he had nothing left to wish for in 
this world. Martial was saying to himself : “What an 
empty life 1 What weariness and vexation of spirit ! To 
live for others — what a mockery 1” 

He looked at his wife, radiant in her beauty, worshiped 
like a queen, and he sighed. He thought of her who 
was dead — Marie- Anne — the only woman whom he had 
ever loved. She was never absent from his mind. After 
all these years he saw her yet, cold, rigid, lifeless, in that 
luxurious room at the Borderie ; and time, far from effac- 
ing the image of the fair girl who had won his youthful 
heart, made it still more radiant and endowed his lost 
idol with almost superhuman grace of person and of 
character. 

If fate had but given him Marie- Anne for his wife ! 
He said this to himself, again and again, picturing the 
exquisite happiness which a life with her would have 
afforded him. They would have remained at Sairmeuse. 
They would have had lovely children playing around 
them ! He would not be condemned to this continual 
warfare— to this hollow, unsatisfying, restless life. 

The truly happy are not those who parade their satis- 
faction and good fortune before the eyes of the multi- 
tude. The truly happy hide themselves from the curious 
gaze, and they are right ; happiness is almost a crime. 


256 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 




So thought Martial ; and he, the great statesman, often 
said to himself, in a sort of rage: “To love, and to be 
loved — that is everything I All else is vanity I” 

He had really tried to love his wife ; he had done his 
best to rekindle the admiration with which she had in- 
spired him at their first meeting. He had not succeeded. 
Between them there seemed to be a wall of ice which 
nothing could melt, and which was constantly increas- 
ing in height and thickness. 

“Why is it?” he wondered, again and again. “It is 
incomprehensible. There are days when I could swear 
that she loved me. Her character, formerly so irritable, 
is entirely changed; she is gentleness itself.” 

But he could not conquer his aversion ; it was stronger 
than his own will. These unavailing regrets, and the 
disappointments and sorrow that preyed upon him, un- 
doubtedly aggravated the bitterness and severity of 
Martial’s policy. 

But he, at least, knew how to fall nobly. He passed, 
without even a change of countenance, from almost 
omnipotence to a position so compromising that his 
very life was endangered. On seeing his ante-cham- 
bers, formerly thronged with flatterers and office-seek- 
ers, empty and deserted, he laughed, and his laugh was 
unaffected. 

“The ship is sinking,” said he ; “the rats have deserted 
it!” 

He did not even pale when the noisy crowd came to 
hoot and curse and hurl stones at his windows; and 
when Otto, his faithful valet de chambre, entreated hie* 
to assume a disguise and make his escape through the 
garden, he responded : 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


257 


“By no means ! I am simply odious ; I do not wish to 
become ridiculous ! “ 

They could not even dissuade him from going to a 
window and looking down upon the rabble in the street 
below. . ' 

A singular idea had just occurred to him. “If Jean 
Lacheneur is still alive,” he thought, “how much he 
would enjoy this ! And if he is alive, he is undoubtedly 
there, in the foremost rank, urging on the crowd.” 

And he wished to see. 

But Jean Lacheneur was in Russia at that epoch. The 
excitement subsided ; the Hotel de Sairmeuse was not 
seriously threatened. Still, Martial realized that it would 
be better for him to go away for a while and allow people 
to forget him. He did not ask the duchess to accompany 
him. 

“The fault has been mine entirely,” he said to her, 
“and to make you suffer for it by condemning you to 
exile would be unjust. Remain here; I think it will be 
much better for you to remain here.” 

She did not offer to go with him. It would have been 
a pleasure to her, but she dared not leave Paris. She 
knew that she must remain in order to insure the silence 
of her persecutors. Both times she had left Paris before 
all came near being discovered, and yet she had Aunt 
Medea, then, to take her place. 

Martial went away, accompanied only by his devoted 
servant, Otto. In intelligence, this man was decidedly 
superior to his position; he possessed an independent 
fortune, and he had a hundred reasons— one, by the way, 
was a very pretty one— for desiring to remain in Paris ; 
but his master was in trouble, and he did not hesitate. 

For four years the Duke de Sairmeuse wandered over 


258 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Europe, ever accompanied his ennui and his dejec- 
tion, and chafing beneath the burden of a life no longer 
animated by interest or sustained by hope. He remained 
a while in London, then he went to Vienna, afterward to 
Venice. -.One day he was seized by an irresistible desire 
to see Paris again, and he returned. 

It was not a very prudent step, perhaps. His bitterest 
enemies — personal enemies, whom he had mortally 
offended and persecuted — were in power; but he did 
not hesitate. Besides, how could they injure him, since 
he had no favors to ask, no cravings of ambition to 
satisfy? The exile which had weighed so heavil}' upon 
him, the sorrow, the disappointments and loneliness he 
had endured, had softened his nature and inclined his 
heart to tenderness ; and he returned firmly resolved to 
overcome his aversion to his wife and seek a reconcilia- 
tion. 

“Old age is approaching,” he thought. ‘.‘If I have not 
a beloved wife at my fireside, I may at least have a 
friend.” 

His manner toward her, on his return, astonished 
Mme. Blanche. She almost believed she saw again the 
Martial of the little blue salon at Courtornieu ; but the 
realization of her cherished dream was now only another 
torture added to all the others. 

Martial was striving to carry his plan into execution, 
when the following laconic epistle came to him one day 
through the post : 

“Monsieur le Due — I, if I were in your place, would 
watch my wife. ’ ’ 

It was only an anonymous letter, but Martial’s blood 
mounted to his forehead. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


259 


“Can it be that she has a lover?” he thought. Then, 
reflecting on his own conduct toward his wife since their 
marriage, he said to himself: “And if she has, have I 
any right to complain? Did I not tacitly give her back 
her liberty?” 

He was greatly troubled, and yet he would not have 
degraded himself so much as to play the spy, had it not 
been for one of those trifling circumstances which so 
often decide a man’s destiny. He was returning from 
a ride on horseback one morning about eleven o’clock, 
and he was not thirty paces from the Hotel de Sairmeuse, 
when he saw a lady hurriedly emerge from the house. 
She was very plainly dressed — entirely in black — but her 
whole appearance was strikingly like that of the duchess. 

“It is certainly my wife; but why is she dressed in 
such a fashion?” he thought. 

Had he been on foot he would certainly have entered 
the house ; as it was, he slowly followed Mme. Blanche, 
who was going up the Rue Grenelle. She walked very 
quickly, and without turning her head, and kept her 
face persistently shrouded in a very thick veil. 

When the reached the Rue Taranne, she threw herself 
into one of the fiacres at the carriage-stand. The coach- 
man came to the door to speak to her; then nimbly 
sprang upon the box, and gave his bony horses one of 
those cuts of the whip that announce a princely pour- 
boire. 

The carriage had already turned the corner of the Rue 
dll Dragon, and Martial, ashamed and irresolute, had 
not moved from the place where he had stopped the 
horse, just around the corner of the Rue Saint-Peres. 
Not daring to admit his suspicions, he tried to deceive 
himself. 


260 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Nonsense I” he thought, giving the reins to his horse, 
“what do I risk in advancing? The carriage is a long 
way off by this time, and I shall not overtake it.” 

He did overtake it, however, on reaching the intersec- 
tion of the Croix-Rouge, where there was, as usual, a 
crowd of vehicles. It was the same fiacre; Martial rec- 
ognized it by its green body and its wheels striped with 
wliite. Emerging from the crowd of carriages, the 
driver whipped up his horses, and it was at a gallop that 
they flew up the Rue du Vieux Columbier — the narrow- 
est street that borders the Place Saint-Sulpice — and gained 
the outer boulevards. 

Martial’s thoughts w^ere busy as he trotted along, about 
a hundred yards behind the vehicle. 

“She is in a terrible hurry,” he said to himself. “This, 
however, is scarcely the quarter for a lovers’ rendezvous.” 

The carriage had passed the Place dTtalie. It entered 
the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers, and soon paused before 
a tract of unoccupied ground. The door was at once 
opened, and the Duchesse de Sairmeuse hastily alighted. 
Without stopping to look to the right or to the left, she 
hurried across the open space. 

A man, by no means prepossessing in appearance, with 
a long beard, and with a pipe in his mouth, and clad in 
a workman’s blouse, was seated upon a large block of 
stone not far off. 

“Will you hold my horse a moment?” inquired Martial. 

“Certainly,” answered the man. 

Had Martial been less preoccupied, his suspicions might 
have been aroused by the malicious smile that curved the 
man’s lips ; and had he examined his features closely, he 
would perhaps have recognized him. 

For it was Jean Lacheneur. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


261 


Since addressing that anonymous letter to the Duke de 
Sairmeuse, ha had made the duchess multiply her visits 
to the Widow Chupin ; and each time he had watched 
for her coming. “So, if her husband decides to follow 
her, I shall know it,” he thought. 

It was indispensable for the success of his plans that 
Mme. Blanche should be watched by her husband. For 
Jean Lacheneur had decided upon his course. From a 
thousand schemes for revenge, he had chosen the most 
frightful and ignoble that a brain, maddened^and'enfev- 
ered by hatred, could possibly conceive. He longed to 
see the haughty Duchesse de Sairmeuse subjected to the 
vilest ignominy, Martial in the hands of the lowest of 
the low. He pictured a bloody struggle in this miserable 
den ; the sudden arrival of the police, summoned by him- 
self, who would arrest all the parties indiscriminately. 
He gloated over the thought of a trial in which the crime 
committed at the Borderie would be brought to light; 
he saw the duke and the duchess in prison, and the great 
names of Sairmeuse and of Courtornieu shrouded in 
eternal disgrace. 

And he believed that nothing was wanting to insure 
the success of his plans. He had at his disposal two 
miserable wretches who were capable of any crime; and 
an unfortunate youth, named Gustave, made his willing 
slave by poverty and cowardice, was intended to play 
the part of Marie-Anne’s son. 

These three accomplices had no suspicion of his real 
intentions. As for the Widow Chupin and her son, if 
they suspected some infamous plot, the name of the 
duchess was all they really knew in regard to it. More- 
over, Jean licld Polyte and his mother completely under 
liis control by the wealth which he had promised them if 


262 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


they served him docilely. And if Martial followed his 
wife into the Poivriere, Jean had so arranged matters 
that the duke would at first suppose that she had been 
led there by charity. 

“But he will not go in,” thought Lacheneur, whose 
heart throbbed wildly with sinister joy as he held Mar- 
tial’s horse. “Monsieur le Due is too fine for that.” 

And Martial did not go in. Though he was horrified 
when he saw his wife enter that vile den, as if she were 
at home there, he said to himself that he should learn 
nothing by following her. He therefore contented him- 
self by making a thorough examination of the outside of 
the house ; then, remounting his horse, he departed on a 
gallop. He was completely mystified ; he did not know 
what to think, what to imagine, what to believe. 

But he was fully resolved to fathom this mystery; 
and, as soon as he returned home, he sent Otto out in 
search of information. He could confide everything to 
this devoted servant; he had no secrets from him. 

About four o’clock his faithful valet de chambre re- 
turned, an expression of profound consternation visible 
upon his countenance. 

“What is it?” asked Martial, divining some great mis- 
fortune. 

“Ah, sir I the mistress of that wretched den is the 
widow of Chupin’s son — ” 

Martial’s face became as white as his linen. He knew 
life too well not to understand that since the duchess had 
been compelled to submit to the power of these people, 
they must be masters of some secret which she was will- 
ing to make any sacrifice to preserve. But what secret? 
The years which had silvered Martial’s hair had not 
cooled the ardor of his blood. He was, as he had always 


• MONSIEUR LECOQ. • 263 

been, a man of impulses. He rushed to his wife’s apart- 
ments. 

“Madame has just gone down to receive the Countess 
de Mussidar and the Marquise d’Arlange,’’ said the maid. 

“Very well ; I will wait for her here. Retire !’’ 

And Martial entered the chamber of Mme. Blanche. 
The room was in disorder, for the duchess, after return- 
ing from the Poivriere, was still engaged in her toilet 
when the visitors were announced. The wardrobe doors 
were open, the chairs encumbered with wearing apparel, 
the articles which Mme. Blanche used daily — her watch, 
her purse, and several bunches of keys — were lying upon 
the dressing-table and mantel. Martial did not sit down. 
His self-possession was returning. 

“No folly,’’ he thought; “if I question her, I shall 
learn nothing; I must be silent and watchful.’’ 

He was about to retire, when, on glancing about the 
room, his eyes fell upon a large casket, inlaid with sil- 
ver, which had belonged to his wife ever since she was a 
young girl, and which accompanied her everywhere. 

“That, doubtless, holds the solution of the mystery,’’ 
he said to himself. 

It was one of those moments when a man obeys the 
dictates of passion without pausing to reflect. He saw 
the keys upon the mantel; he seized them, and en- 
deavored to find one that would fit the lock of the 
casket. The fourth key opened it. It was full of 
papers. With feverish haste. Martial examined the 
contents. He had thrown aside several unimportant 
letters, when he came to a bill that read as follows : 

“Search for the child of Mme. de Sairmeuse. Ex- 
penses for the third quarter of the year 18 — ’’ 


264 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. • 


Martial’s brain reeled. A child! His wife had a 
child 1 

He read on: “For services of two agents at Sair- 
nieuse, . For expenses attending my own jour- 
ney, . Divers gratuities, . Etc., etc.’’ The 

total amounted to six thousand francs. The bill was 
signed “Chefteux.” 

With a sort of cold rage. Martial continued his ex- 
amination of the contents of the casket, and found a 
note written in a miserable hand, that said : “Two thou- 
sand francs this evening, or I will tell the duke the his- 
tory of the affair at the Borderie.” Then several more 
bills from Chefteux ; then a letter from Aunt Medea, in 
which she spoke of prison and of remorse. And finally, 
at the bottom of the casket, he found the marriage cer- 
tificate of Marie- Anne Lacheneur and Maurice d’Escor- 
val, drawn up by the cure of Vigano and signed by the old 
physician and Corporal Bavois. The truth was as clear 
as daylight. 

Stunned, frozen with horror. Martial scarcely had 
strength to return the letters to the casket and restore 
it to its place. Then he tottered back to his own room, 
clinging to the walls for support. 

“It was she who murdered Marie- Anne I’’ he mur- 
mured. 

He was confounded, terror-stricken by the perfidy and 
baseness of this woman who was his wife — by her crimi- 
nal audacity, by her cool calculation and assurance, by 
her marvelous powers of dissimulation. 

He swore he would discover all, either through the 
duchess or through the Widow Chupin ; and he ordered 
Otto to procure a costume for him such as was generally 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


265 


worn by the habitues of the Poivriere. He did not know 
how soon he might have use for it. 

This happened early in February, and from that mo- 
ment Mme. Blanche did not take a single step without 
being watched. Not a letter reached her that her hus- 
band had not previously read. 

And she had not the slightest suspicion of the constant 
espionage to which she was subjected. 

Martial did not leave his room ; he pretended to be ill. 
To meet his wife and be silent was beyond his powers. 
He remembered the oath of vengeance which he 
had pronounced over Marie- Anne’s lifeless form too 
well. 

But there were no new revelations, and for this reason : 
Polyte Chupin had been arrested under charge of theft, 
and this accident caused a delay in the execution of 
Lacheneur’s plans. But, at last, he judged that all 
would be in readiness on the 20th of February, Shrove 
Sunday. 

The evening before the Widow Chupin, in conform- 
ance with his instructions, wrote to the duchess that 
she must come to the Poivriere Sunday evening, at 
eleven o’clock. On that same evening Jean was to 
• meet his accomplices at a ball at the Rainbow — a 
public-house bearing a very unenviable reputation — and 
give them their last instructions. These accomplices 
were to open the scene ; he was to appear only in the 
denouement. 

"All is well arranged; the mechanism will work of its 
own accord !” he said to himself. 

But "the mechanism,’’ as he styled it, failed to work. 
Mme. Blanche, on receiving the Widow Chupin ’s sum- 


266 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


mons, revolted for a moment. The lateness of the hour, 
the isolation of the spot designated, frightened her. 

But she was obliged to submit, and on the appointed 
evening she furtively left the house, accompanied by 
Camille, the same servant who had witnessed Aunt 
Medea’s last agony. The duchess and her maid were 
attired like women of the very lowest order, and felt no 
fear of being seen or recognized. 

And yet a man was watching them, and he quickly 
followed them. It was Martial. Knowing of this ren- 
dezvous even before his wife, he had disguised himself 
in the costume which Otto had procured for him, which 
was that of a laborer about the quays ; and, as he was a 
man who did perfectly whatever he attempted to do, he 
had succeeded in rendering himself unrecognizable. His 
hair and beard were rough and matted ; his hands were 
soiled and grimed with dirt; he was really the abject 
wretch whose rags he wore. 

Otto had begged to be allowed to accompany him ; but 
the duke refused, saying that the revolver which he 
would take with him would be suhicient protection. He 
knew Otto well enough, however, to be c.e; tain he would 
disobey him. 

Ten o’clock was sounding when ]\Iadame biancLit ani 
Camille left the house, and it did not take them five 
minutes to reach the Rue Taranne. There was one fiacre 
on the stand— one only. They entered it, and it drove 
away. 

This circumstance drew from Martial an oath worthy 
of his costume. Then he reflected that, since he knew 
where to find his wife, a slight delay in finding a car- 
riage did not matter. He soon obtained one ; and the 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


267 


coachman, thanks to a pour-boire of ten francs, drove to 
the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers as fast as his horses 
could go. 

. But the duke had scarcely set foot on the ground be- 
fore he heard the rumbling of another carriage which 
stopped abruptly at a little distance. 

“Otto is evidently following me,” he thought. 

And he started across the open space in the direction 
of the Poivriere. Gloom and silence prevailed on every 
side, and were made still more oppressive by a chill fog 
that heralded an approaching thaw. Martial stumbled 
and slipped at almost every step upon the rough, snow- 
covered ground. 

It was not long before he could distinguish a dark 
mass in the midst of the fog. It was the Poivriere. The 
light within filtered through the heart-shaped openings 
in the blinds, looking, at a distance, like lurid eyes gleam- 
ing in the darkness. 

Could it really be possible that the Duchesse de Sair- 
meuse was there? Martial cautiously approached the 
window, and clinging to the hinges of one of the shut- 
ters, he lifted himself up so he could peer through the 
opening. 

Yes, his wife was indeed there, in that vile den. She 
and Camille were seated at a table 'before a large punch- 
bowl, and in company with two ragged, leering scoun- 
drels, and a soldier, quite youthful in appearance. In 
the center of the room stood the Widow Chupin, with a 
small glass in her hand, talking volubly and punctuat- 
ing her sentences by copious draughts of brandy. 

The impression produced upon Martial was so terrible 
that his hold relaxed and he dropped to the ground. A 


268 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


ray of pity penetrated his soul, for he vaguely realized 
the frightful sufferings which had been the chastise- 
ment of the murderess. But he desired another glance 
at the interior of the hovel, and he again lifted himself 
up to the opening and looked in. 

The old woman had disappeared; the young soldier 
had risen from the table, and was talking and gesticu- 
lating earnestly. Mme. Blanche and Camille were lis- 
tening to him with the closest attention. The two men 
who were sitting face to face, with their elbows upon 
the table, were looking at each other ; and Martial saw 
them exchange a significant glance. 

He was not wrong. The scoundrels were plotting ' ‘a 
rich haul.” Mme. Blanche, who had dressed herself 
with such care, that to render her disguise perfect she 
had incased her feet in large, coarse shoes that were 
almost killing her— Mme. Blanche had forgotten to re- 
move her superb diamond earrings. She had forgotten 
them ; but Lacheneur’s accomplices had noticed them, 
and were now regarding them with eyes that glittered 
more brilliantly than the diamonds themselves. 

V/hile awaiting Lacheneur’s coming, these wretches, 
as had been agreed upon, were playing the part which he 
had imposed upon them. For this, and their assistance 
afterward, they were to receive a certain sum of money. 
But they were thinking that this sum was not, perhaps, 
a quarter part of the value of these jewels, and they ex- 
changed glances that said: “Ah! if we could only 
get them and make our escape before Lacheneur 
comes 1” 

The temptation was too strong to be resisted. One of 
ohem rose suddenly, and, seizing tlie duchess by the back 
of the neck, he forced her head down on the table. The 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


269 


diamonds would have been torn from the ears of Mme. 
Blanche had it not been for Camille, who bravely came 
to the aid of her mistress. 

Martial could endure no more. He sprang to the door 
of the hovel, opened it and entered it, bolting it behind . 
him. 

‘ ‘Martial ! Monsieur le Due ! ’ ’ 

These cries escaping the lips of Mme. Blanche and 
Camille in the same breath, changed the momentary 
stupor of their assailants into fury; and they both pre- 
cipitated themselves upon Martial, determined to kill 
him. 

With a spring to one side. Martial avoided them. He 
had his pistol in his hand; he fired twice, and the 
wretches fell. 

But he was not yet safe, for the young soldier threw 
himself upon him, and attempted to disarm him. 
Through all the furious struggle. Martial did not cease 
crying in a panting voice : 

“Dlyl Blanche, fly ! Otto is not far off. The name — 
save the honor of the name I” 

The two women obeyed, making their escape through 
the back door, which opened upon the garden ; and they 
had scarcely done so, before a violent knocking was 
heard at the front door. The police were coming ! This 
increased Martial’s frenzy ; and with one supreme effort 
to free himself from his assailant, he gave him such a 
violent push that his adversary fell, striking his head 
against the corner of the table, after which he lay like 
one dead. But the Widow Chupin, who had come 
downstairs on hearing the uproar^^was shrieking upon 
the stairs. At the door some one was crying : “Open, in 
the name of the law !’ 


270 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Martial might have fled; but if he fled, the duchess 
might be captured, for he would certainly be pursued. 
He saw the peril at a glance, and his decision was made. 
He shook the Widow Chupin violently by the arm, and 
/ said, in an imperious voice : 

“If you know how to hold your tongue, you shall have 
one hundred thousand francs I” 

Then, drawing a table before the door opening into the 
adjoining room, he intrenched himself behind it as a 
rampart, and awaited the approach of the enemy. 

The next minute the door was forced open, and a 
squad of police, under the command of Inspector Gevrol, 
entered the room. 

“Surrender V’ cried the inspector. 

Martial did not move ; his pistol was turned upon the 
intruder. “If I can parley with them, and hold them 
in check only two minutes, all may yet be saved,” he 
thought. 

He obtained the wished-for delay ; then he threw his 
weapon to the ground and was about to bound through 
the back door when a policeman, who had gone round 
to the rear of the house, seized liim about the body and 
threw him to the floor. 

From this side he expected only assistance, so ho 
cried : 

“Lost ! It is the Prussians who are coming !” 

In the twinkling of an eye, he was bound ; and two 
hours later he was an inmate of the station-house at the 
Place dTtaiie. 

He had played his part so perfectly that he had de- 
ceived even Gevrol. The other participants in the broil 
were dead, and he could rely upon the Widow Chupin. 


]LjEiC0C5(, 


9JV. 


:io knew thao the tra^ had been set xor him by Jean 
Laclieneur ; and he read a whole volume of suspicion in 
the eyes of the young officer who had cut off his retreat, 
and who was called Lecoq by his companions. 


CHAPTER LV. 

The Duke de Sairmeuse was one of those men who 
remain superior to all fortuitous circumstances, good 
or bad. He was a man of vast experience and great 
natural shrewdness. His mind was quick to act, and 
fertile in resources. But when he found himself im- 
mured in the damp and loathsome station-house, after 
the terrible scenes at the Poivriere, he relinquished all 
hope. 

Martial knew that Justice does not trust to appear- 
ances, and that when she finds herself confronted by a 
mystery, she does not rest until she has fathomed it. 

Martial knew, only too well, that if his identity was 
establisned, the authorities would endeavor to discover 
the reason of his presence at the Poivriere. That this 
reason would soon be discovered he could not doubt, 
and, in that case, the crime at the Borderie, and the guilt 
0£ the duchess, would undoubtedly be made public. 

This meant the Court of Assizes, prison, a frightful 
scandal, dishonor, eternal disgrace ! And the power he 
had wielded in former days was a positive disadvantage 
to him now. His place was now filled by his political 


272 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


adversaries. Among them were two personal enemies 
upon whom he had inflicted those terrible wounds of 
vanity which are never healed. Wliat an opportunity 
for revenge this would afford them ! 

At the thought of this ineffaceable stain upon the great 
name of Sairmeuse, which was his pride and his glory, 
reason almost forsook him. 

“My God! inspire me!” he murmured. “How shall 
I save the honor of the name?” 

He saw but one chance of salvation — death. They 
now believed him one of the miserable wretches that 
haunt the suburbs of Paris ; if he were dead, they would 
not trouble themselves about his identity. “It is the 
only way !” he thought. 

He was endeavoring to find some means of accom- 
plishing his plan of self-destruction, when he heard a 
bustle and confusion outside. In a few moments the 
door w^as opened and a man was thrust into the same 
cell — a man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily to 
the floor, and began to snore loudly. It was only a 
drunken man. 

But a gleam of hope illumined Martial’s heart, for in 
the drunken man he recognized Otto— disguised, almost 
unrecognizable. It was a bold ruse, and no time must 
be lost in profiting by it. Martial stretched himself upon 
a bench, as if tc sleep, in such a way that his head was 
scarcely a yard from that of Otto. 

“The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faith- 
ful servant. 

“For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow^, through me, all 
will be known.” 

“Have you told them who you are?” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


273 


r 


*‘No ; all the policemen but one took me for a vaga- 
bond.” 

“You must continue to personate his character.” 

“What good will it do? Lacheneur will betray 
me.” 

But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to 
fear Lacheneur ; for the present, at least. A few hours 
before, on his way from the Rainbow to the Poivriere, 
Jean had been precipitated to the bottom of a stone- 
quarry, and had fractured his skull. The laborers, on 
returning to their work early in the morning, found him 
lying there senseless ; and at that very moment they were 
C!:i,rrying him to the hospital. Although Otto was igno- 
rant of this circumstance, he did not seem discouraged. 

“There will be some way of getting rid of Lacheneur,” 
said he, “if you will only sustain your present character. 
An escape is an easy matter when a man has n^illions at 
his command.” 

“They will ask me who I am, whence I came, how I 
have lived.” 

“You speak English and German; tell them that you 
have just returned from foreign lands ; that you were a 
foundling, and that you have always lived a roving 
life.” 

“How can I prove this?” 

Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impres- 
sively : 

“We must agree upon our plans, for our success de- 
pends upon a perfect understanding between us. I have 
a sweetheart in Paris— and no one knows our relations. 
She is as sharp as steel. Her name is Milner, and she 
keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, on the Saint- Quentin. 


274 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


You can say that you arrived here from Leipsic on Sun- 
day; that you went to' this hotel; that you left your 
trunk there, and that this trunk is marked with the 
name of May, foreign artist.” 

“Capital!” said Martial, approvingly. 

And then, with extraordinary quickness and precision, 
they agreed, point by point, upon their plan of defense. 
When all had been arranged, Otto pretended to awake 
from the heavy sleep of intoxication ; he clamored to be 
released, and the keeper finally opened the door and set 
him at liberty. Before leaving the station-house, how- 
ever, he succeeded in throwing a note to the Widow 
Chupin, who was imprisoned in the other compart- 
ment. 

So, when Lecoq, after his skillful investigations at the 
Poivriere, rushed to the Place d’ltalie, panting with hope 
and ambition, he found himself outwitted by these men, 
who were inferior to him in penetration, but whose 
finesse was superior to his own. 

Martial’s plans being fully formed, he intended to 
carry them out with absolute perfection of detail, and, 
after his removal to prison, the Duke de Sairmeuse was 
preparing himself for the visit of the judge of instruc- 
tion, when Maurice d’Escorval entered. They recog- 
nized each other. They were both terribly agitated, 
and the examination was an examination only in name. 
After the departure of Maurice, Martial attempted to 
destroy himself. He had no faith in the generosity of 
his former enemy. 

But when he found M. Segmuller occupying Maurice’s 
place the next morning. Martial believed that he was 
saved. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


275 


Then began the struggle between tlie judge and Lecoq 
on one side, and the accused on the other — a struggle 
from which neither party came out conqueror. 

Martial knew that Lecoq was the only person he had 
to fear, still he bore him no ill-will. Faithful to his 
nature, which compelled him to be just even to his 
enemies, he could not help admiring the astonishing 
penetration and perseverance of this young policeman 
who, undismayed by the otstacles and discouragements 
that surrounded him, struggled on, unassisted, to reach 
the truth. 

But Lecoq was aw ays outwitted by Otto, the mysteri- 
ous accomplice, who seemed to know his every movement 
in advance. At the Morgue, at tlie Hotel de Mariem- 
bourg, with Toinon, the wife of Polyte Chupin, as well 
as with Polyte Chupin himself, Lecoq was just a little 
too late. 

Lecoq detected the secret correspondence between the 
prisoner and his accomplice. He was even ingenious 
enough to discover the key to it ; but this served no pur- 
pose. A man, who had seen a rival, or, rather, a future 
master, in Lecoq, had betrayed him. 

If his efforts to arrive at tlie truth through the jeweler 
and the Marquis d’Arlange had failed, it was only be- 
cause Mine. Blanche had not purchased the diamond ear- 
rings she wore at the Poivriere at any shop, but from one 
of her friends, the Baroness de Watchau. 

And, lastly, if no one in Paris had missed the Duke de 
Sairmeuse, it was because— thanks to an understanding 
betw^een the duchess, Otto and Camille— no other inmate 
of the Hotel de Sairmeuse suspected his absence. All 
the servants supposed their master confined to his room 
by illness. They prepared all sorts of gruels and broths 


276 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


for him, and his breakfast and dinner were taken to his 
apartments every day. 

So the week went by, and Martial was expecting to be 
summoned before the Court of Assizes and condemned 
under the name of May, when he was afforded an op- 
portunity to escape. 

Too shrewd not to discern the trap that had been set 
for him, he endured some moments cf horrible hesita- 
tion in the prison van. He decided to accept the risk, 
however, commending himself to his lucky star. And 
he decided wisely ; for that same night he leaped his own 
garden-wall, leaving as a hostage in the hands of Lecoq 
an escaped convict, Joseph Couturier by name, whom he 
had picked up in a low drinking-saloon. 

Warned by Mme. Milner, thanks to a blunder on the 
part of Lecoq, Otto was awaiting his master. In the 
twinkling of an eye Martial’s beard fell under the razor ; 
he plunged into the bath that was awaiting him, and his 
clothing was burned. And it was he who, during the 
search, a few minutes later, had the hardihood to call 
out : 

“Otto, by all means allow these men to do their 
dut}^” 

But he did not breathe freely until the agents of police 
had departed. 

“At last!” he exclaimed, “honor is saved I We have 
outwitted Lecoq !’’ 

He had just left the bath, and enveloped liimself in a 
robe de chavihre, when Otto handed him a letter from the 
duchess. He hastily broke the seal, and read : 

“You are safe. You know all. I am dying. Fare- 
' well I I loved you I” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ 


277 


With two bounds he reached his wife’s apartments. 
The door was locked ; he burst it open. Too late ! Mme. 
Blanche was dead — poisoned, like Marie- Anne; but she 
had procured a drug whose effect was instantaneous; 
and extended upon her couch, clad in her wonted ap- 
parel, her hands folded upon her breast, she seemed only 
asleep. A tear glittered in Martial’s eye. 

“Poor, unhappy woman !’’ he murmured; “may God 
forgive you as I forgive you — you whose crime has been 
so frightfully expiated here below !’’ 


END OF VOI.UME II. 


278 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


EPILOGUE. 

THE FIRST SUCCESS. 

Safe in his own princely mansion, and surrounded by 
an army of retainers, the Duke de Sairmeuse triumph- 
antly exclaimed : 

“We have outwitted Lecoq I’ 

In this he was right. But he thought himself forever 
beyond the reach of the wily, keen-witted detective ; and 
in this he was wrong. Lecoq was not the man to sit 
down with folded hands and brood over the humiliation 
of his defeat. 

Before he went to Father Tabaret, he was beginning to 
recover from his stupor and despondency ; and when he 
left that experienced detective’s presence, he had re- 
gained his courage, his command over his faculties, and 
sufficient energy to move the world, if necessary. 

“Well, my good man,’’ he remarked, to Father Ab- 
sinthe, who was trotting along by his side, “you heard 
what the great Monsieur Tabaret said, did you not? So 
you see I was right.’’ 

But his companion evinced no enthusiasm. “Yes, you 
were right,’’ he responded, in woe-begone tones. 

“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes? 
Nonsense ! I will soon turn our defeat of to-day into a 
glorious victory !’’ 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


279 


**Ah ! you might do so, perhaps, if — they do not dis- 
miss us from the force.” 

This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a realizing sense 
of the present situation. They had allowed a prisoner to 
slip through their fingers. That was vexatious, it is 
true ; but they had captured one of the most notorious 
of criminals — Joseph Couturier. Surely there was some 
comfort in that. 

But while Lecoq could have borne dismissal, he could 
not endure the thought that he would not be allowed to 
follow up this affair of the Poivriere. What would l)is 
superior officers say when he told them that May and the 
Duke de Sainneuse were one and the same person? They 
would, undoubtedly, shrug their shoulders and turn up 
their noses. 

“Still, M. Segmuller will believe me,” he thought. 
“But will he dare to take any action in the matter 
without incontrovertible evidence?” 

This was very unlikely. Lecoq realized it all too 
well. 

“Could we not make a descent upon the Hotel de Sair- 
meuse, and, on some pretext or other, compel the duke 
to show himself, and identify him as the prisoner. 
May?” 

He entertained this idea only for an instant, then 
abruptly dismissed it. 

“A stupid expedient !” he exclaimed. “Are two such 
men as the duke and his accomplice likely to be caught 
napping? They are prepared for such a visit, and we 
should only have our labor for our pains.” He made 
these reflections sotto voce; and Father Absinthe’s curi- 
osity was aroused. 


280 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


“Excuse me,” said he, “I did not quite understand 
you.” 

“I say that we must find some tangible proof before 
asking permission to proceed further.” 

He paused with knitted brows. In seeking a circum- 
stance which would establish the complicity between 
some member of the duke’s household and the witnesses 
who had been called upon to give their testimony, Lecoq 
thought of Mme. Milner, the owner of the Hotel de 
Mariembourg, and his first meeting with her. He saw 
her again, standing up on a chair, her face on a level 
with a cage, covered with a large piece of black siik, 
persistently repeating three or four German words to a 
starling, who as persistently retorted : “Camille ! Where 
is Camille?” 

“One thing is certain,” resumed Lecoq; “if Madame 
Milner — who is a German, and who speaks with lAte 
strongest possible German accent — had raised this bird, 
it would either have spoken German, or with the same 
accent as its mistress. Therefore, it cannot have been 
in her possession long; and who gave it to her?” 

Father Absinthe began to grow impatient. 

“In sober- earnest, what are you talking about?” he 
asked, petulantly. 

“I say thati if there is some one at the Hotel de Sair- 
meuse named Camille, I have the proof I desire. Come, 
Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.” 

And without another word of explanation, he dragged 
his companion rapidly along. 

When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq saw a 
messenger leaning against the door of a wine-shop. Le- 
coq called him. 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


281 


“Come, my boy,” said he; “I wish you to go to the 
Hotel de Sairmeuse and ask for Camille. Tell her that 
her uncle is awaiting her here.” 

“But, sir—” 

“What, you have not gone yet?” 

The messenger departed; the two policemen entered 
the wine-shop, and Father Absinthe had scarcely had 
time to swallow a glass of brandy when the lad re- 
turned. 

“Monsieur, I was unable to see Mademoiselle Camille. 
The house is closed from top to bottom. The duchess 
died very suddenly this morning.” 

“Ah I the wretch!” exclaimed the young policeman. 

Then, controlling himself, he mentally added: “He 
must have killed his wife on returning home, but his 
fate is sealed. Now, I shall be allowed to continue my 
investigations. ” 

* In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais 
de Ju£.^'ice. M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoder- 
ately surprised at Lecoq’s revelations. Still, he listened 
with evident doubt to the young policeman’s ingenious 
deductions ; it was . circumstance of the starling that 
seemed to decide him. 

“Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he said, at 
last; “and, to tell the truth, I quite agree with you. 
But I can take no further action in the matter until you 
can furnish proof so convincing in its nature that the 
Duke de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of denying 
'it.” 

“Ah, sir 1 my superior officers will not allow me — ” 

“On the contrary,” interrupted the judge, “they will 
allow you the fullest liberty after I have spoken to 
them.” 


282 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


Such action on the part of M. Seginuller required not 
a little courage. There had been so much laughter about 
M. Segmuller’s grand seigneur, disguised as a clown, that 
many men would have sacrificed their convictions to 
the fear of ridicule. 

“And when will you speak to them? ’ inquired Lecoq 
timidly. 

“At once.” 

The judge had already turned toward the door whet 
the young policeman stopped him. 

“I have one more favor to ask, monsieur, he said* 
entreatingly. “You are so good ; you are the first per 
son who gave me any encouragement — who had faith it 
me.” 

“Speak, my brave fellow.” 

“Ah, monsieur I will you not give me a message * 
Monsieur d’Escorval? Any insignificant messp :e — ir 
form him of the prisoner’s escape. I will b^ Lhe brpiv 
of the message, and then — Oh ! fear not hi ug, .moc'*,iCU '‘ 

I will be prudent. ” 

“Very well ” replied the jud -e. 

When he left the ofiice oi i was fully 

authorized to proceed with his ' ^ .aons, and in his 

pocket was a note for M. d’Escoi ^ from M. Seginuller. 
His joy was so intense that he did not deign to notice the 
sneers which were bestowed upon him as he passed 
through the corridors. 

On the threshold, his enemy, Gevrol, the so-called 
general, was watching for him. 

“Ah, hal” he laughed, as Lecoq passed out, “here is 
one of those simpletons who fish for whales and do not 
catch even a gudgeon.” 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


283 


For an instant Lecoq was angry. He turned abruptly 
and looked Gevrol full in the face. 

“That is better than assisting prisoners to carry on a 
surreptitious correspondence with people outside,” he 
retorted, in the tone of a man who knows what he is 
saying. 

In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and 
his blush was equivalent to a confession. But Lecoq 
said no more. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol 
had betrayed him I Was he not about to win a glorious 
revenge ! 

He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his 
plan of action, and in thinking what he should say when 
he took M. Segmuller’s note to Maurice d’Escorval. The 
next morning, about eleven o’clock, he presented him- 
self at the house of M. d’Escorval. 

“Monsieur is in his study with a young man,” replied 
the servant; “but, as he gave me no orders to the con- 
trary, you may go in.” 

Lecoq entered. The study was unoccupied. But from 
the adjoining room, separated from the study only by a 
velvet portiere, came a sound of stifled exclamations, 
and of sobs mingled with kisses. 

Not knowing whether to remain or retire, the young 
policeman stood for a moment undecided ; then he ob- 
served an o ‘>9n letter lying upon the carpet. Impelled 
tc do it by an impulse stronger than his own will, Ijecoq 
picked up the letter. 

It read as follows : 

“The bearer of this letter is Marie- Anne’s son, Mau- 
rice — your son. I have given him all the proofs neces- 
sary to establish his identity. It was to his education 


284 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


that I consecrated the heritage of my poor Marie- Anne. 
Those to whose care I confided him hasre made a noble 
man of him. If I restore him to you, it is only because 
the life I lead is not a fitting life for him. Yesterday, 
the miserable woman who murdered my sister died from 
poison administered by her cwn hand. Poor Marie- 
Anne ! she would have been far more terribly avenged 
had not an accident which happened to me saved the 
Duke and the Duchesse de Sairmeuse from the snare into 
which I had drawn them. Jean Lacheneur.” 

Lecoq stood as if petrified. Now he understood the 
terrible drama which had been enacted in the Widow 
Chupin’s cabin. 

“I must go to Sairmeuse at once,” he said to himself; 
“there I can discover all.” 

He departed without seeing M. d’Escorval. He re- 
sisted the temptation to take the letter with him. 


It was exactly one month, to a day, after the death of 
Mme. Blanche. Reclining upon a divan in his library, 
the Duke de Sairmeuse was engaged in reading, when 
Otto, his valet de chambre, came to inform him that a 
messenger was below, charged with delivering into the 
duke’s own hands a letter from M. Maurice d’Escorval. 
With a bound. Martial was on his feet. 

“Is it possible?” he exclaimed. Then he added, 
quickly: “Let the messenger enter.” 

A large man, with a very florid complexion, and red 
hair and beard, timidly handed the duke a letter. 

Martial broke the seal, and read : 


MONSIEUR LECOQ. 


285 


“I saved you, monsieur, by not recognizing the 

prisoner. May. In your turn, aid me ! By noon, day 

after to-morrow, I must have two hundred and sixty 

thousand francs. I have sufficient confidence in your 

honor to apply to you. Maurice d’Escorval.” 

\ 

For a moment Martial stood bewildered, then, spring- 
ing to a table, he began writing, without noticing that 
the messenger was looking over his shoulder : 

“Monsieur— Not day after to-morrow, but this even- 
ing. My fortune and my life are at your disposal. It is 
but a slight return for the generosity you showed in re- 
tiring when, beneath the rags of May, jmu recognized 
your former enemy, now your devoted friend, 

“Martial de Sairmeuse. ’’ 

He folded this letter with a feverish hand, and giving 
it to the messenger with a louis, he said : 

“Here is the answer; make haste.” 

But the messenger did not go. 

He slipped the letter into his pocket, then, with a 
hasty movement, he cast his red beard and wig upon 
the floor. 

“Lecoq!” exclaimed Martial, paler than death. 

“Lecoq; yes, monsieur,” replied the young detective 
“I was obliged to take my revenge ; my future depended 
upon it, and I ventured to imitate Monsieur d’Escorval’s 
writing.” 

And, as Martial made no response : 

“I must also say to Monsieur le Due,” he continued, 
“that on transmitting to the judge the confession writ- 
ten by the duke’s own hand, of his presence at the Poiv- 


286 


lONSIEUR LECOQ. 


riere, I can, and shall, at the same time, furnish proofs 
of his entire innocence. ’ ’ _ 

And to show that he was ignorant of nothing he 
added : 

“As madame is dead there will be nothing said in 
regard to what took place at the Borderie.” 

A week later a verdict of not guilty was rendered by 
M. Segmuller in the case of the Duke de Sairmeuse. 

Appointed to the position ho coveted, Lecoq had the 
good taste, or perhaps the shrewdness, to wear his honors 
modestly. 

But on the day of his promotion, he ordered a seal, 
upon which was engraved the exultant rooster, which he 
had chosen as his armorial design, and a motto to which 
he ever remained faithful, Semper Vigilans. 


33 I D 1^ manna 

0 I r% The secret 
Mountains. It restores the 
their ailments and keeps 
them sing even while 
15c. Sold by all drug- 
Bird Book free. THE 
Third Street, Philadel- 
sample of Fronefield’s 
best in the World, with free book. 



makes Canaries 

of the Hartz | « 

song of Cage Birds, prevents 
them in good iiealth. It makes 
shedding feathers. Mailed for 
gists, grocers and bird stores. 
BIRD FOOD CO., 400 North 
PHiA, Pa. Send also for a free 
Horse and Cattle Powders, the 


When a Woman 

Proposes 

to wash clothes without Pearl- 
ine, her husband or her em- 
ployer ought to interfere. 
She is not only wearing 
out her own health and 
strength with useless rub- 
bing and scrubbing, but she 
is wearing out the clothes 
with it, too. This rub, rub, 
rub isn’t needed. Put 
Pearline into the water, and you’ll find half 
the work done by the time you are ready to 
begin. It’s Pearline that loosens the dirt and 
does the work — not you with your washboard. 

Just a little rinsing, and it’s all over. 

Beware of imitations 339 JAMES PYLE, New York. 




CARI. L. JENSEN'S CRYSTAL ^psinTab^tsw^^^ 
vent Indigestion from rich fwd. Dose 1 tohiet r-I^ P- f 

Circulars FREE. 

( 287 ) 












/OL. XL, Xo. 14. 


January is;"l894. Subscription Price, $1..50 




nONSIEUR 

LECOQ 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 


EMILE GABORIAU 


Translated hy Mrs. Laura E. Kendall 


In Three Volumes — Volume One 


Issued Semi-Monthly. Entered at the Post-Office at New York as second-class matter. 

PETER FENELON COLLIER. Published. 523 W. 13th St.. N.Y. 





I “ WORTH A GUINEA A BOX.” S| 



PILLS 


Covered with a Tasteless & Soluble Coating. 


4 


CURE 

SICK HEADACHE, 

DISORDERED LIVER, ETC. 


They Act Like Magic on the Vital Organs, 
Regulating the Secretions, restoring long lost 
Complexion, bringing back the Keen Edge of 
Appetite, and arousing with the ROSEBUD OF 
HEALTH the whole physical energy of the 
human frame. These Facts are admitted by 
thousands, in all classes of Society. Largest 
Sale in the World. 


Of all druggists. Price 35 cents a box. ^ 
New York Depot, 365 Canal St. 3 ^ 


BURNETT 

- - - AT THE 

CHICAGO EXPOSITION 


WHAT THE RESTAURATEURS AND CATERERS WHO ARE TO FEED 
THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE FAIR GROUNDS THINK OF 

BURNETT’S EXTRACTS: 


Chicago, April 2<1, 1893. 
J^'^'essrs. Joseph Burnett & Co. 

(gentlemen : After careful tests and inves- 
tigation of the merits of your flavoring ex- 
tracts, we have decided to give you the 
entire order for our use, in our working 
department as well as in all our creams and 
ices, used in all of our restaurants in the 
buildings of the World’s Columbian Ex- 
^>sitlou at Jackson Park. 

Very truly yours, 

i WELLINGTON CATERING CO. 

By Albert S. Gage, President. 


Chicago, April 26th, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : After careful investigation we 
have decided that Burnett’s Flavoring Ex- 
tracts are the hest. We shall use them ex- 
clusively in the cakes, ice creams and 
pastries served in Banquet Hall and at New 
England Clam Bake in the World's Fair 
urounds. 

N. E. WOOD, Manager, 

New England Clam Bake Building. 

F. K. McDonald, Manager, 

Banquet Hall. 


Woman’s Building, ) 

World’s Columbian Exposition, j 
Chicago, April 21st, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : take pleasure in stating 

that Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will 
be used exclusively in the Garden Cafe, 
Woman’s Building, World’s Columbian Ex- 
l^sition, during the period of the World’s 

* RILEY & LAWFORD. 


Columbia Casino Co. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen: We take pleasure in stating 
that Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will be 
used exclusively in the cuisine of the 
Columbia Casino Restaurant, at the 
World’s Fair Grounds, as it is our aim to 
use nothing but the best. Respectfully. 

H. A. WINTER, Manager. 


Transportation Building, ) 
World’s Columbian Exposition.! 
, ^ Chicago, April 24, 1893. 

Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co. 

Gents; Alter careful tests and compart- 
sons we have decided to use “ Burnett’s 
Extracts’ exclusively in our ice creams, 
ices and pastry. Very respectfully. 

Caterers for the " Golde^Gate^af^^’^’^’ 

•• TBOCACERO,” ’ 

Cor. 16th Street and Michigan Avenue. 


“The Great White Horse” Inn Co.. > 
World’s Columbian > 
Exposition Grounds, j 
Chicago, III., U. S. a., April 26, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : It being our aim to use noth- 
ing but the best, we have decided to use 
Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts exclusively. In 
the ice cream, cakes and pastries served In 
“The Great White Hprse” Inn, in the 
grounds of the World’s Columbian Expo- 
sition. Very truly yours, 

T. B. SEELEY, Manager. 
“ The Great White Horse ” Inn Co. 
i 


i The Restaurants that have contracted to use Burnett’s Extracts, exclusively, 
1^ are as follows : 

WELLINGTON CATERING CO„ COTrUMBTA CASINO CO., 

“GREAT WHITE HORSE” INN, THE GOLDEN GATE CAFE, 

THE GARDEN CAFE, NEW ENGLAND CLAM BAKE CO., 

woman’s building. banquet HALL. 


JOSEPH BURNETT & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 

I 


Pears’ 

Soap 

Wholesome soap it 
one that attacks th( 
dirt, but not the liv 
ing skin. It is Pears’ 


XI.. Xt). 15. jANUAiiY 27, 1894. Subscription Price, .?1.5{) 



ued Semi-Monthly. , Entered at the Post-Office at New York as second-class matter. 

PETER FENELcf", COLLIER. Publishep.. 523 W. 13th St.. JSf.Y. 


LECOQ 

FROM THE FRENCH OF 

EAIILE GABORIAU 

Translated 'hy Mrs. Laura E. Kendall 
In Three Volumes — Volume Two 




Pears’ 

Soap 

Pears’ Soap does noth- 
ing but cleanse ; it has 
no medical properties, but 
brings back health and the 
color of health to many a 
sallow skin. Use it often 
Give it timi . - : 


BURNETT 

AT THE 

CHICAGO EXPOSITION 


WHAT THE RESTAURATEURS AND CATERERS WHO ARE TO FEED 
THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE FAIR GROUNDS THINK OF 

BURNETT’S EXTRACTS: 


Chicago, April 2d, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & (Jo. 

Gentlemen : After careful tests and Inves- 
tigation of the merits of your flavoring ex- 
tracts, we have decided to give you the 
entire order for our use, in our working 
department as well as in all our creams and 
ices, used in all of our restaurants in the 
buildings of the World’s Columbian Ex- 
position at Jackson Park. 

Very truly yours, 
WELLINGTON CATERING CO. 

By Albert S. Gage, i resident. 


Chicago, April 26th, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen: After careful investigation we 
have decided that Burnett’s Flavoring Ex- 
tracts are the best. We shall use them ex- 
clusively in the cakes, ice creams and 
■astrles served in Banquet Hall and at New 
England Clam Bake in the World’s Fair 
Grounds. 

N. E. WOOD, Manager, 

New England Clam Bake Building. 

F. K. McDonald, Manager, 

Banquet HalL 


WoM.iN's Building, ? 

World’s Columbian Exposition, j 
Chicago, April 21st, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen: We take pleasure in stating 
that Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will 
be used exclusively in the Garden Cafe, 
Woman’s Building, World’s Columbian Ex- 
position, during the period of the World’s 

RILEY & LAWFOKD. 


Columbia Casino Co. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & co., 

Boston and Cliicago. 

Gentlemen: We take pleasure in stating 
that BUK.NKTT’s Flavoring Extracts will be 
used exclusively in ine cuisine of the 
Columbia Casino Restaurant, at the 
AV or Id’s Fair Grounds, as It is our aim to 
use nothing but the best. Respectfully. 

H. A. WINTER, Manager. 


Transportation Building, \ • 
World’s Columbian E.vposition. j 
Chicago, April 24, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co. 

Gents: After careful tests and compari- 
sons we have decided to use “ Burnett’s 
Extracts ” exclusively in our Ice creams, 
ices and pastry. Very respectfully, 

^ ^ SCHaRPS &KAHN, 

Caterers for the “ Golden Gate Cafe,” 

Transportation Building. 

“ TROCADERO,” 

Cor. I6th Street and Michigan Avenue. 


“The Great White House’ Inn Co., 
World’s Columbian 
Exposition Grounds. 

Chicago, III., U. S. A., April 26, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : It being our aim to use noth- 
ing but the best we have decided to use 
Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts exclusively. In 
the Ice cream, cakes and pastries served in 
‘‘The Great White Horse” Inn, In the 
grounds of the World’s Columbian Expo- 
sition. Very truly yours, 

T. B. SEELEY, Manager, 
“ The Great White Horse ” Inn Co. 


The Restaurants that have contracted to use Burnett’s Extracts, exclusively, 

are as follows : 


WELLINGTON CATERING CO., 
“GREAT WHITE HORSE” INN, 
THE GARDEN CAFE, 

woman’s building. 


COLUMBIA CASINO CO., 

THE GOLDEN GATE CAFE, 

NEW ENGLAND CLAM BAKE CO.. 
BANQUET HALL. 


JOSEPH BURNETT & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 


J “WORTH A GUINEA A BOX.” 




PILLS 


CURE 

SICK HEADACHE, 

DISORDERED LIVER, ETC. 

P 

They Act Like Magic on the Vital Organs, 

^ Regulating the Secretions, restoring long lost < 
p Complexion, bringing back the Keen Edge of ■ 
^ Appetite, and arousing with the ROSEBUD OF ■ 
I health the whole physic il energy of the 

human frame. These Facts are admitted by ’ 
thousands, in all classes of Society. Largest ! 
k Sale in the World. 

Covered with a Tasteless & Soluble Coating. 

Of all druggists. Price 25 cents a box. 
New York Depot, 365 Canal St. 3 

I 

jja, av.. 





OL. XL, So. 16. 


Februahv 10, 1894. Snbscription Price, $1.50 






nONSIEUR 

LECOQ 

FROM THE FRENCH OF 

EMILE GABORIAU 

TranelaUd 1,1 Mrs. Laura E. Kendall 

In Three Volumes— Volume Three 


Issued Semi-Monthly. Entered at the Post-Office at TTew York as second-class matter. 
PFJTER FENELON COLLIER. PUBLISHER, 523 W. 13th St.. N.Y. 




•w •Si^ •Jjv ^ w *y*^ *7is* ^ 

“ WORTH A GUINEA A BOX.” 



CURE 

SICK HEADACHE, 

DISORDERED LIVER, ETC. 

They Act Like Magic on the Vital Organs, 
Regulating the Secretions, restoring long lost 
Complexion, bringing back the Keen Edge of 
Appetite, and arousing with the ROSEBUD OF 
HEALTH the whole physical energy of the V 
human frame. These Facts are admitted by ^ 
thousands, in all classes of Society. Largest ^ 
Sale in the World. J 

Covered with a Tasteless & Soluble Coating. ^ 

Of all druggists. Price 25 cents a box. ^ 
New York Depot, 365 Canal St. 3 ^ 



. cf 


BURNETT 

- - - AT THE 

CHICAGO EXPOSITION 


WHAT THE RESTAURATEURS AND CATERERS WHO ARE TO FEED 
THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE FAIR GROUNDS THINK OP 

BURNETT’S EXTRACTS: 


Chicago, April 2d, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & co. 

Gentlemen : After careful tests and Inves- 
tigation of tbe merits of your flavoring ex- 
tracts, we have decided to give you the 
entire order for our use, in our working 
department as well as in all our creams anr'' 
ices, used in ail of our restaurants in th( 
buildings of the World’s Columbian Ex- 
position at Jackson Park. 

Very truly yours, 
WELLINGTON CATERING CO. 

By AI.BERT S. Gage, President. 


Chicago, April 26th, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

, Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : After careful investigation we 
have decided that Burnett’s Flavoring Ex- 
tracts are the best. We shall use them ex- 
clusively In the cakes, ice creams and 
pastries served In Banquet Hall and at New 
England Clam Bake in the World’s Fair 
Grounds. 

N. E. WOOD, Manager, 

New England Clam Bake Building. 

F. K. McDonald, Manager, 

Banquet Hall. 


Woman's Building, ) 

World’s Columbian Exposition. } 
Chicago, April 21st, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : We take pleasure In stating 
that Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will 
be used exclusively in the Garden Cafe, 
Woman’s Building, t^orld’s Columbian Ex- 
l^sition, during the period of the World’s 

RILEY & LAWFORD. 


Columbia Casino Co. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen: We take pleasure in stating 
that Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will be 
used exclusively in the cuisine of the 
Columbia Casino Restaurant, at the 
y or Id ’8 Fair Grounds, as it is our aim to 
use nothing but the best. Respectfully. 

H. A. WINTER, Manager. 


Transportation Building, ) 
World’s Columbian Exposition.! 

Chicago, April 24, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co. _ 

Gents : After careful tests and comMrl- 
sons we have decided to use “ Burnett’s 
Extracts ” exclusively in our ice creams, 
ices and pastry. Very respectfully, 

^ ^ SCHARPS & KAHN, 

Caterers for the “ Golden Gate Cafe,” 

■•TBOCADERO,” transportation BuUdIng. 
Cor. 16th Street and Michigan Avenue. 


"The Great White Horse’ Inn Co.. ) 
World’s Columbian ! 
Exposition Grounds. S 
Chicago, III., U. S. a., April 26, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : It being our aim to use noth- 
ing but the best we have decided to use 
Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts exclusively. In 
the ice cream, cakes and pastries served in 
“The Great White Horse” Inn, in the 
grounds of the World’s Columbian Expo- 
sition. Very truly yours, 

T. B. SEELEY, Manager, 
” The Great White Horse ” Inn Co. 


The Restaurants that have contracted to use Burnett’s Extracts, exclusively, 

are as follows : 


WELLINGTON CATERING CO„ 
“GREAT WHITE HORSE” INN, 
THE GARDEN CAFE, 

woman’s building. 


COLUMBIA CASINO CO., 

THE GOLDEN GATE CAFE, 

NEW ENGLAND CLAM BAKE CO., 
BANQUET HALL. 


JOSEPH 


BURNETT & 


CO 


•9 


BOSTON, MASS. 


Wholesome soap is 
one that attacks the 
dirt, but not the liv- 
ing skin. It is Pears’, 


lRB!/r76 




/ 


% 



